


Rolling in the Deep

by PinstripesAndConverse



Category: City of Love: Paris (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artistic Liberties, Because how did Vincent know so much?, Character Death, Eventual Romance, F/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Slight Canon Divergence, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, This is honestly the biggest thing I've written in years, Weaves through the Canon, Written before Season 2 really began, dealing with grief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-04-05 14:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 96,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14046030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinstripesAndConverse/pseuds/PinstripesAndConverse
Summary: City of Love: Paris AU, roughly a year and a half prior to the start of the game, continues through Season 1 and 2.  Vincent Karm notices an incongruity with a painting he knows well and realizes there must be some truth to the rumors he hears spreading about forgeries.  He hires an American with a background in art history and the art market to look into the situation, leading to the discovery of a plot that would prove devastating for Paris.  Eventual Vincent Karm x OC.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rolling in the Deep: "adaptation of a kind of slang, slur phrase in the UK called 'roll deep,' which means to have someone, always have someone that has your back, and you're never on your own, if you're ever in trouble you've always got someone who's going to come and help you fight it"-Adele
> 
> This is an AU that came to mind before Season 2 truly got started, before Vincent became a love interest for the MC; this starts off prior to Season 1 and then weaves itself into the canon story with a few tiny changes. Although the character here shares her name with my MC (and Bioware owns the last name Cousland, I should preface), the original character isn't a replacement for the game's lead character. They're two separate characters; the MC appears later on.

He didn’t remember the café being this crowded the last time he was in New York.  Then again, he didn’t remember the eight new galleries he passed on his way here, either, and the High Rise was teeming with people instead of wrapped in weeds.   How Manhattan had changed in a mere blink of an eye.

The space was cramped with young adults, some dressed for work in proper attire, others looking unkempt like they rolled out of bed.  A few looked more affluent than others; their parents were likely covering their ever-rising rent in up-and-coming neighborhoods he’d never been to.  There were people around his age were scattered throughout, mostly working, except for one or two tourist groups. He knew the owner, a fellow Frenchman, and refused to go anywhere else for his caffeine fix when visiting.  He had, after all, been one of his initial investors.

Vincent checked his watch again as he waited on line.  He had wandered down to Chelsea from his hotel in Midtown to peruse the galleries and still had ample time to return and change before the auction began later that evening.  He had his eye on a rare Moreau painting and had every intention of taking it back to Paris with him, where it bloody well belonged. 

Rumors within Parisian collector circles were swirling about paintings containing small incongruities, mostly those already held by institutions and museums.  Granted,  _ many  _ works in esteemed collections were likely forgeries in some form, if only in the sense that the artist might only have done one or two brushstrokes and signed the canvas.

At first, he thought it nothing but gossip; perhaps the artist wasn’t well-liked or the deal was shadier than the auction house let on.  Upon closer inspection of a painting he knew by heart, he had seen an additional figure sprawled out in a corner, covered in boils. It fit the scene and was chronologically  _ possible _ for such a figure to be there, certainly.  But that space used to be devoid of anything except the background imagery.  He’d been going to that museum for most of his life, he’d been able to spot a difference almost instantly.  Vincent couldn’t help but wonder if the conservationist had cleaned it too well. 

Buying the Moreau tonight meant a rare piece for his collection and possibly sparing it the same fate as the other work.  He needed confirmation on who one of the buyers could be. The focus seemed to fall on French artists or those being considered by French museums or foundations.  Vincent only caught a few more of the paintings with small differences; he had seen enough to make connections, but he was far from understanding the motivation.

The line finally cleared up and he ordered, conversing with the owner as he took over to personally handle Vincent’s drink.  A small to-go cup followed beside his larger drink; something for the bodyguard he had left near the door, a courtesy he never mentioned or asked for, but appreciated nonetheless.  

Autumn warranted a jacket; the climate wasn’t much different between France and America, at least as far as he was concerned.  He’d already needed the black Burberry trench coat before boarding the plane. It gave a good dramatic flair as well, he thought.

Vincent neared his destination,  _ Gallerie LeClaire _ , a place with which he had a long history, and stopped to peer in the window at the paintings on easels, framed in modern, dark wood.  He trusted Arthur’s perspective, and knew he could rely on the connoisseur to find something  _ new  _ when he wanted it, whether it be a piece or the artist themselves.  TJ was doing fine on his own, with the occasional reminder of his transgression, of course. 

The Parisian could do with a new project.

He checked his reflection, preening for a moment as much as one can with only one hand, and then entered the large space, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor.  The bodyguard stood at the threshold of the space, keeping his distance and only moving when his boss left his field of view into a different room. 

A few employees lingered about, mostly on phones or tablets presumably answering emails, posting on social media or interacting with clients.  One of them, a tall blonde he assumed more interested in modeling than art, approached him and attempted small talk about a particular work. He would never consider buying the painting.  It was garish, almost vulgar in its color use. Unable to hold his tongue, he gave a snarky response and asked if Arthur was in. 

_ At least learn the techniques and terminology _ , he growled mentally. 

Her heels clicked as she walked away and up a set of stairs by the entrance, her face stoic but cheeks burning.  She was replaced by Arthur, thick reading glasses perched on his nose and red hair speckled with grey at the temples.   _ Gallerie LeClaire  _ was one of the first American galleries Vincent visited when he came to the lower section of Manhattan more than ten years ago.  Arthur had worked with another dealer the entrepreneur knew in Paris and their paths had crossed a few times. When it came to acquiring anything across the Atlantic, the man in front of Vincent was the only one he could trust.  

Arthur was followed by another woman, older than the girl who had gone to fetch them.  She was average height, not as waif-like as the blonde, dark brown hair swept back at the nape of her neck.  At least she looked capable of holding an actual conversation or reading body language. She carried herself straight and tall but lacked the haughtiness he’d come to expect from others in this industry.

“Vincent Karm, I should have known you’d be in town,” Arthur held out his hand and Vincent shook it, 

“Apologies for not calling ahead, I flew in late last night.  I wanted to stop and see what the auction houses hadn’t gathered for the floor tonight.”  The charming smile he returned to Arthur was one of the rare genuine ones he wore. Vincent was pleased to be among people who  _ knew  _ how amazing the human mind was in being able to create masterpieces of all kinds. 

“Well, there’s plenty of it,” the owner replied, continuing in a soft tone as a group of people walked in, “and I have some backroom pieces as well.  We signed a new artist last week and the show doesn’t open until next month.”

“ _ Merci _ , Arthur.”  Vincent turned around to take a glance at the painting he was looking at before he had been interrupted.  Still ugly. He hoped Arthur wasn’t losing his touch. A low beeping permeated the space, but he ignored it-it certainly wasn’t him, he kept his phone on vibrate.

"Unfortunately, Vincent, I must step out, I have an appointment to keep," Arthur tapped his smartwatch to turn the notification off. "Sophia's my second-in-command, she can see to any questions or follow-ups."

Vincent watched the owner leave before his eyes fell on the woman finishing notes with a stylus on the tablet she carried.  He could see names and tasks, things to do by the end of the day. It wasn't like Arthur not to introduce people, especially assistants.  She matched her coworker from earlier, dressed in a fashionable black dress with three-quarter sleeves. Simple but it was clearly designer, tailored to her specifically, modern but clearly not  _ new _ .  Her light blue eyes scanned the screen before locking the tablet and giving him her full attention.

He had to fight to keep his face impassive as a small shock ran through him.  She could be striking when she wanted to be.

"Does he always do that?" Vincent asked, breaking the silence. "Not fully introduce you and then throw you to the wolves?"  

_ He’s almost as terrible as me.  Almost. _

"No, his mind has been elsewhere today, he's caught up in a project.  I'm Sophia Cousland." She held out her hand, her arm rigid and formal.  She kept a distance, the smile on her lips not meeting her eyes. It would have fooled anyone else.  But not him. She was practiced in pleasantries while maintaining a boundary, and not just from her job.

Usually women were the opposite with him, warm, smiling, doing anything to be near him.  She was uncomfortable despite being in familiar territory. Not scared, not terrified of what he was capable of, simply uncomfortable. Well, that was new.

"Vincent Karm."  He took her hand and shook it, surprised at the strength she had in her grip and how warm it was, despite her frigidity.  He rarely cared for others' emotions, but he kept his charm in check. He could work with uncomfortable, she'd warm to him soon enough. 

"Shall I leave you alone to look around?  You barely got in the door before Vanessa cornered you."  Ah, there  _ was _ the hint of a sense of humor, if the glint in her eyes was anything to go by. 

_ Genuine, despite the distance she prefers to keep... _

"Fifteen minutes should suffice, and then I wish to see the backroom.”

“Of course, Mr. Karm,” she walked away and towards the front desk, leaving him to his thoughts. 

She came back exactly fifteen minutes later, carrying only a small cluster of keys and her cell phone in place of the tablet.  His bodyguard followed and took his place near the door, a silent watcher.

Many of the pieces were already framed, propped up against the wall with their pricing and didactic information tucked into the frame’s corner.  Once again, she kept her distance, answering questions but not conversing much. Vincent was growing tired of hearing himself think.

“Who’s your favorite artist?” He asked.

Sophia looked a bit startled and Vincent was slightly pleased with himself at having caught her off-guard by speaking to her casually.  He continued studying the painting in front of him but glanced at her again, her eyes looking somewhere to her left in thought. He saw a spark ignite in her eyes as Sophia said, “Gustave Moreau, although Artemisia Gentileschi is a close second.”

Part of him expected stock answers of Impressionists or Renaissance artists, or some modern unknown to all except those stalking social media.  Moreau was only recently considered relevant, having been the teacher of Matisse and Rouault. And Artemisia’s story was a brutal one. 

As he looked at the American woman and considered his next words, he found himself hoping she could only relate to the artist on the level of not being taken seriously by male colleagues.  Vincent wasn’t considered by many to be kind but the mere idea of any personal connection between her story and Artemisia's turned his stomach. 

“Not many people remember Moreau,” he mused, cocking his head to examine a work from a different angle.  “They remember the staircase in his house, but never his paintings.”

“I’ve spent the past six years working with his oeuvre, which culminated in a journal article.  He’s a hard artist to forget.” He didn’t have to look at her to know he had broken a bit of the mask she wore.  There was a lilt of excitement in her voice and he wondered how often anyone asked about her thoughts or insights.  “The staircase is an afterthought compared to  _ Jupiter and Semele _ .”

_ Most usually choose his biblical paintings _ , Vincent thought.  He remembered seeing an article about Moreau and other artists recently, one of the few things he had made time to read entirely through.  American writer, New York based, one of the younger authors to be published in this quarter’s edition of the journal.

“Which publication?”  Vincent leaned in to a smaller frame hung at eye level, admiring the vibrancy of the colors.  It caught his eye more than the others but it didn’t look or feel as unique as he would like. 

“Oxford Art Journal was the only one willing to do a retrospective piece this quarter.”

_ Mind of an academic and someone who understands the art market and its game.  She could do nicely. _

He gave a soft laugh to himself before stepping back and turning to her.  “So  _ that  _ was  _ you. _  Rare for someone to write so beautifully without getting caught up in academic jargon.  I see Arthur finally took my advice and hired someone with a brain.”

She didn’t know how to react to his bluntness about her coworkers, the excitement she exuded vanishing.  He had the feeling her ambitions were a sore spot with her work environment, where it was expected of her to behave as an arm-piece and flatter guests when she wasn’t working beside Arthur.

“You  _ read  _ it?  I didn’t expect anyone to actually...I was under the impression the Journal just needed the padding this edition.”

She sounded almost shocked.  Why  _ wouldn’t  _ it have been read?  The publishers clearly thought highly of it, that alone should have been every indication of her skills.  

“I found it coherent and refreshing, Ms. Cousland, especially from one outside of academia.”

He had, in fact, thoroughly enjoyed the piece.  Not many writers outside of Europe captured Moreau correctly, as passionately, as those who dedicated their lives to Symbolism did.  

“Not everyone has the same enthusiasm for the boring part of this industry, Mr. Karm,” she replied, pretending to brush dust off her sleeve, her previous professional tone returning.  “Many would prefer to live in the present than make sense of the past to  _ understand  _ the present and the future.  I’m the latter.”

_ Oh, yes.  She would do very nicely indeed. _

“I believe I’ll wait and see the response for the opening show.  Arthur has taste and my suitcase has little room.” 

“Of course.”  She led them out of the backroom and into the gallery, which busier than before.  He watched her scan the room to see if anyone caught her eye or motioned to her to come over.  The girl she’d called Vanessa was deep in conversation with a tourist couple and young man gestured to parts of a painting to an older, eccentrically dressed woman.  Sophia turned back to him and he expected her to say something, her brow creasing slightly as if considering something. It disappeared as quickly as it came, the mask falling back into place as he passed her his business card.  He knew full well Arthur had his contact information on file already. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Karm.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cousland, for your hospitality.  Give Arthur my regards.” 

He walked across the gallery, turning his head to peer at the works as he passed by, listening to soft whispered conversations.  Vincent half-expected her to catch up to him but instead he heard Sophia’s voice joined in with the eccentric woman’s in the back of the gallery.

Vincent found himself stopping in his tracks, curiosity striking him.  He often preferred attending auctions alone, especially when it came to dealing with gossip regarding his relationships.  He was known for his entrepreneurship and investing in young and talented individuals but he was one of the few who managed to keep his private life out of publication.  He would like to keep it that way.

But giving her an opportunity to see a work by an artist she admired and spent most of her education learning about could provide good incentive.  It would be a chance to see how she was outside of her work environment. Here, she was stilted, stuck in her duty.

He motioned to his guard to wait for him as he turned and walked back to Sophia, who was surprised to find he was still there.  She excused herself from the conversation and covered the distance between them, not bothering to hide her puzzlement. He briefly thought that she moved with a grace and purpose he only saw in those without the need to prove anything to anyone but never once forgetting those around her.

He knew arrogance quite well and she wasn’t capable of being so.  She’d been surprised about her article, after all.

“Is something wrong, sir?”  She tilted her head to the side slightly as she peered up at him.

“Ms. Cousland, you’re aware of the 19 th Century European auction’s lineup tonight, I take it?”

She nodded, humming an affirmative sound.  “A lot of pieces that haven’t been seen out of private hands in at least a decade, it’s a beautiful lot.  Do you have your eye on something?” 

“The Moreau is the first to be sold outside of Europe, I plan to take it back with me to Paris.  You captured his spirit magnificently in your article and I thought perhaps you might like to see it before it sells?”

Vincent watched her blue eyes widen as her eyebrows rose in disbelief.  “I…I’m honored to be given that opportunity but I’m not sure I’ll be done here by the time it starts.”

“Tell Arthur I invited you.”  Vincent shrugged, looking off to the side for a moment.  Arthur was more than willing to accommodate his odd requests, he was a high-spending long-term client. “He’ll be more than willing to let you leave early to get ready.”

“That might give him the wrong impression, since he doesn’t know about my article.”  She shifted, adjusting her posture so she stood straighter.

“No one else’s opinion of you should matter in your decisions, Ms. Cousland.  I’ll send a car in a few hours,” Vincent adjusted his tie as he gave her a small smile, accepting her curt nod and eye contact as resignation that she was not getting out of his invitation before making his way back to the door.

_ Initially uncomfortable but enthusiastic when her mind aligns with her heart.  That, I can work with _ .  He thought, exiting the gallery and heading into the crisp autumn air.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian Preschoux is French artist who creates thread sculptures and installations.

_Well, that was…unexpected._   Sophia thought, watching the retreating figure of the man whose business card she held between two fingers.

She turned her attention back to Vanessa, who gestured subtly that she was fine, before gathering the stuff she left at the front desk and heading back upstairs to her desk.  In the time she had between letting Vincent look around, she had pulled up the customer profile they had on him as well as simply searched for his name; the man was a celebrity in the business and arts world.

Entrepreneur was putting it lightly.  CEO, occasional venture capitalist, serving as an honorary board member or consultant for several museums, often seen as the successful force behind multiple up-and-coming young business people across fields, producer of several new renditions of classical operas…she wondered if the man ever  _slept_.

Placing her things down, she stared at the surface for a second before opening her laptop to finish looking over the press release that marketing had sent over to be proofed.  Rifling through a pile of papers, she found a remote and turned on a TV in the corner of the room to keep an eye on the cameras from downstairs.

_And I’m supposed to attend an auction with Paris’ most successful businessman._ She thought, the idea simultaneously distressing and exciting.   _How am I supposed to even_ tell  _Arthur?_

She grabbed her phone and sent a quick text to her boss, wording it neutrally.  She went back to working on the press release.  A few minute later, her phone rang and her heart jumped into her chest as she picked up Arthur’s call.

“Go.  Make up the hours later this week.  He’s too much of an important client to turn him down.”

“Are you sure?  I know…”

“I’ll manage, Sophia.  But please, be careful.  I’ve heard things from other collectors, other gallerists; I deal with him because I worked with him before he became who he is.  He only takes an interest in anything when it’s rare and valuable,” she heard passing vehicle traffic, indicating he was outside, “he’s a predator and everything he offers comes at a price, often one too high.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he offers you a job, just know it comes with more strings than a Sebastien Preschoux installation.”

Her boss ended the call abruptly, leaving her staring at her phone with a mixture of fear and confusion knotting her stomach.

* * *

The car came mid-afternoon, right as her stomach growled for the umpteenth time.  Sophia had skipped lunch to get as much done as possible by the time she left and mull over her boss’ words.  She had been meaning to ask what he had meant by a job offer but Arthur had darted into his office and she hadn’t seen him when she left.

When she arrived at her building, the driver gave her a timeframe; the auction house was back in Midtown, closer to where Vincent was staying, and traffic would be difficult getting back into the heart of the borough.  It was enough to eat and get ready, barely, as she expected.

She grabbed a blue cocktail dress, something she reserved for outside of work, and made the most of the time she had.  She fussed with her hair before giving up and leaving it down, the ends wavy from having been tied back all day.  She didn’t have enough time to deal with it at the moment and she’d rather not have her patience frayed.

_Right, just an auction with a rich French businessman.  On behalf of Arthur. No big deal._ She thought as she grabbed her wallet, keys, and phone and darted out the door again.

* * *

Sophia tempered her expression as she followed Vincent into the main gallery, her eyes immediately falling on the paintings on the other side of the room, by the podium.

The car ride over was quiet but not unpleasant.  They made short conversation-he asked if she knew decent place to eat outside of Midtown, she recommended places she swore by that weren’t taking advantage of a recent trend.

She thought it odd that his PA hadn’t taken care of that and he clarified, as if having read her mind, that he did most of his own travel planning.  

Sophia nodded, and changed the subject, saying the places might look like holes in the wall but the food they served was worthy of their Michelin and Zagat ratings.  

She was sure he was reading her far better than she was him.  Vincent had been kind, picking her brain on the topics she knew best, asking her what prompted her paper, her career choice, how she came to work for Arthur.  

After her boss’ warning, she was wary, but she found it difficult when he was so…disarming.  She was candid yet offered no more explanation about certain matters than necessary.  

Perhaps she was making this out to be more difficult than necessary.  What would Vincent want from someone like her, a Chelsea gallery assistant still clinging to academia?  He seemed…different than the other rich men and women she worked with but a part of her doubted he could see her as more than another gallerina.

They arrived at the auction house soon enough, the space already packed with buyers.  She had been to a few of these events before but not one with such an extensive lot list.  Her eyes roamed the pieces, declining a glass of wine from a waiter as they began a circuit around the room.  Vincent offered her his arm, which she took; although she would have no issue finding him, between his height and distinct visage, it would be embarrassing to be separated.

“How did you come to work for Arthur?”  He asked, his eyes searching a painting to their right.

“I interned for him a few years ago when I was still in college and he hired me when I graduated.”

“Did you continue?”

“Finished my graduate program two years later.”  Sophia peered around the room until her eyes rested on the Moreau at the back of the room.

“Yet you publish under a pseudonym.”  He still didn’t look at her, his gaze focused on the minute details of another painting, perhaps the texture of the finish on the canvas.

“It’s a…delicate subject.  And the only way I could publish and still keep my job.”

He didn’t reply but she caught a shift in his expression, perhaps a silent understanding that she needn’t say more.  Her boss was kind but the academics of the art world were a thorn in his side.  He wanted a smart personal assistant without a head in the clouds of theorizing and connecting cultural dots.  

They reached the Moreau in easy silence and she couldn’t help but let her eyes roam the entire piece, her mask breaking to show slight excitement.

“Where would you hang this?”  She asked, breaking her gaze for a moment to glance at him before her eyes were drawn back.  

“In my library.  It’s too large for my home in Paris so it’ll do quite nicely in my country home, near Chartres.”  She raised an eyebrow and he amended, “About an hour from Paris.”

Sophia nodded, her eyes catching on a detail in the painting.  For a moment, all of noise around her fell away, and it was just her and the painting.   She was enthralled, finding techniques he used in later pieces or a color she never noticed before, only ever having seen photos of it.  She wondered what color the furniture was in his library, the walls, the carpets, if they would match the painting.  If he would put a new frame around it-perhaps he would find the ornate, bulky frame offensive to the work.  

“I’ll have it restored and then hung properly.  It has coloring similar to the Persian carpet in the room.”  Vincent’s words brought her out of her thoughts.

“It’s going to a good home.”  She murmured, casting a final glance at it before they continued on.

A  deep blue iridescent vase caught her eye, breaking up the space between two large canvases.  She gazed at the coloring and checked the didactic text, skimming the words.  

She had separated herself from Vincent just enough to get a closer view of the porcelain as he lingered on the painting after it.  She felt someone bump her shoulder hard as they were trying to pass other people in the opposite direction and she stumbled into the pedestal.

Sophia watched as the midnight blue vase toppled to the floor before wincing as it shattered, stunning the people nearby, Vincent included.

Shock and fear crossed her face as tears welled up behind her eyes. No, she couldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of her boss’ client. Not in front of a lot of her boss’ clients.  She wasn’t clumsy, how had she been so stupid as to not be aware of her body space?  That jerk had just shoulder bumped her without second thought and it resulted in this.  But she was the one who knocked it over; she was the responsible party.

She locked eyes with the auctioneer, whose eyes burned with anger, although he seemed to recognize the situation wasn’t intentional.  He began making his way over; that would have to be settled, she knew, the auction house just lost money because of her, regardless of insurance.

Employees came over with gloves and bags, hoping to salvage the vase in their restoration department. It would never be sold again.  She felt a grip on her arm-Vincent pulling her out of the way, his face impassive, although clearly irked at her involvement in the scene. He let go as the auctioneer approached, giving her a respectful amount of space for a private conversation.

“It happens more than you think,” the anger in the man’s visage dissipated a bit upon seeing her so distraught, at least she hoped it was that and not Vincent’s presence.

“I work in Chelsea, this isn’t the kind of thing to happen when I’m around priceless objects.  I-”

“We need to at least reclaim the loss of profit, assuming you wish to avoid a lawsuit.” The man said softly.  "We need payment by the end of the event.“

"I understand. I’ll…work something out.”

The man’s eyes flickered to Vincent, who was on his phone, seemingly not paying attention to the affair.  

“Who do you work for?” The auctioneer asked, having recognized Vincent Karm.

“Arthur Badikan, I’m his PA.”

“Just the principal then, the starting bid price.”

She nodded her understanding, the man taking a final, perhaps concerned, look at her before retreating back to the front of the room.  

Her stomach lurched as she glanced down at the catalog and saw the high-close-to-ten-digit number. She didn’t have that. She wouldn’t earn that much in a lifetime, even with base pay and commission.  Keeping her face impassive, she excused herself from Vincent’s company, weaving her way through the crowd to find the nearest deserted room, nearest restroom, somewhere she could think and breath for two seconds.  She didn’t take notice of Vincent’s eyes following her through the crowd, keeping tabs on her for his own benefit.

She found a lounge, empty save a scattered few who were sitting and enjoying their refreshments, chatting away.  Sophia walked over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, leaning on the wall slightly as she signed into one of her banking apps, checking her accounts.

She had been saving but nothing came close to even making a dent in the hundreds of millions she now owed.  She let a breath out through her nose softly as she looked away from her phone, staring out at the city street in thought.  She could get approved for a few loans, she knew, her credit was good for it.  That might give her…not enough.  

She could call her boss…. _and say what, exactly?_  She thought.  _Hi, Arthur, I broke a several-hundred-million dollar vase and I can’t leave the auction house until I pay, lest I be sued into oblivion? Oh, and did I mention Vincent was next to me when it happened? He must think I’m such a klutz, haha!_

Her chest constricted in agony.  She was fucked. Absolutely fucked. She ends up embarrassing herself, her employer-by proxy, and Vincent, a man she had known for all of an hour, max.  Millions of dollars in debt in three seconds, all because some brute bumped into her to talk to Vincent.  

She heard the bell signaling the start of the auction, for everyone to take their seats.  The room emptied out, leaving her alone in the old-fashioned salon.  At least, she expected to be alone.

“Quite the dilemma you’ve landed yourself in, Ms. Cousland.”  Vincent’s voice was smooth, tinged with amusement. Did he think this was funny?  She gripped her phone tighter, her knuckles white.  She wanted to be alone.

_Someone pushed me, I didn’t ask for this_ , Sophia thought bitterly.  

“Shouldn’t you be in the gallery? The auction’s starting.”  She kept her tone professional as best she could, although it came out more clipped and forced than she had intended.

“My lot number is towards the end of the event.”  He came to stand behind her, their eyes meeting in the reflection of the window. “I merely…wanted to check on you.  You looked ill.”

“That’s one word for it.” She retorted, breaking the eye contact to focus on the passing traffic.  "I have favors I can collect on, I’ll figure it out.“

"You didn’t even argue that someone bumped into you.”

“I was the one who touched it, that’s all they care about.” She looked back at her phone, where she had typed a note of how much she had.  "It’s fine.“

He moved to stand beside her, arms behind his back, staring out like she was. Even in her heels, she felt dwarfed by him, coming to his chest. "I have a proposition.”

_Why do I get the feeling I’m about to sell my soul?_  She thought.

“I’ll cover your debt.  In exchange, you’ll be my art advisor. You’ll repay me by the value of the paintings I buy-I’ll take your commission until your debt is paid.  You’ll otherwise be paid a far better salary than what you’re currently making.”

“I-But….that’s….” She was unable to hide her astonishment, that he considered her debt to be payable in a lifetime.  

“A drop in the bucket, quite frankly.  It hardly sets me back.”  He looked almost bored having to tell her such a thing.  

“What’s to stop you from buying nothing while I’m in your employ?”  That was an easy loophole, to just keep her and never let her leave.

“I’ve been called…many things, but I’m a collector, Ms. Cousland. I like shiny and rare things, the rarer, the better. If I see something I like, I’ll stop at nothing to get my hands on it.”  He shrugged and rolled his neck, such a casual gesture for him, “You get to stay in your field, I get someone who has an academic mind for art and who appreciates art.”

“I still fail to see what you gain from helping me.”

“You have an eye for seeing beyond what’s visually represented on a canvas, in marble; that much was apparent from your article.  It was…refreshing to find something analytical without being bogged down in modern theory, tying connections together without trying to make the past fit the present.  A job with me doesn’t come around easily and you’re too charming of a woman to waste away in the dreary downtown of Chelsea.”

She smiled wryly, but said nothing.  She hadn’t been charming the entire evening, but then again, what counted as her charm was probably fake.

He peered down at her, an eyebrow raised, gauging her reaction. “What if I said I’m buying this Moreau not only because I want it, but to protect it?”

Her eyes narrowed in response.  Wasn’t that the whole point of buying paintings?  Protect them, preserve them, all of that?  

“Protect it from what, or who?”  She asked, confusion poorly hidden.

“There’s…been a small, quiet whisper of thievery from museums and forgery, paintings replaced with fakes, a difference noticeable only to those who know what to look for.”

“That’s always a risk with art, that’s why it makes for poor investment.”

He gave her a look that could freeze hell for speaking out of turn, interrupting his monologue. She winced and he continued.  

“These pieces were authenticated as genuine by those either too stupid or too complacent to care.  Many of these paintings have such minute details that one small change is barely noticeable.  I’ve seen enough of them to understand one message from the added minutia: destruction, of Paris, specifically.”

_That was why he wanted the Moreau.  To keep it from being targeted…those pieces are heavy with symbolism and detail…_ Sophia thought, controlling her facial expression the best she could.

“There are few things in this world I care about, Sophia Cousland, and one them is the genuine state of the art market and the institutions in place. Of the well being of my home.  To know my time and money was not spent on something false.  The more….covert part of your job when not caring for my collection would be to find the forger and the thieves, and bring their identities to me.”

“Not the auth-”

“ _To me_.”

Sophia looked away, her face impartial but her mind going a thousand miles a second somewhere between panic and intrigue.  She was no spy, no master of a thousand personas, but she knew the art market, knew the way things were supposed to work.  She half-wondered if none of this had been chance, if perhaps Vincent had set her to up to be backed into a corner with no other way out but him.  To get the chance to unveil this…the ambitious side of her wanted to scream in excitement, take the job no questions asked.  Yet…she knew it was take time to gain trust, play a role, patience was a necessity, not a virtue. Could Vincent Karm be that patient?

“It could take years.”  She murmured.

“So would paying off your debt.  Even if that was paid off prior, you would still play your part through to the end. That’s really what I’d be paying you for, after all.  And you’ll have credit in the final act of exposing them, of course.  You’ll have every door open to you.”

What choice did she have?  This debt was productive, would expose her to working on a personal collection, and she’d possibly take down an infamous forgery ring sending threatening messages to the masses that no one was seeing.  She would be a fool not to take it.  And she knew he was aware that she was not a fool.

“Okay.  I’ll do it.”  She turned to him, standing straight, steeling herself to meet his gaze.

“Excellent.” He replied, a smirk she had a feeling he wore often crossing his lips.  "I believe this is the start of a great partnership, my dear.  Now come, I have a painting to buy.“


	3. Chapter 3

There was one thing Sophia discovered rather quickly when she was finally settled into her Parisian apartment and new job roughly a month and a half later.  
  
Vincent didn’t  _have_ a personal assistant.  

Things still got done, delegated to the proper channels, and he had a secretarial staff to do most of the other work, but no one was specifically delegated as the PA.  
  
Odd, for a CEO of his caliber.   
  
She was initially mistaken for the role when she first arrived before Vincent corrected the staff member harshly when he took the paper that had been handed to her and signed it, glaring at the younger man.  She had gleaned from the staff that the last PA hadn’t left graciously, and they had been hoping someone would eventually take on the role.  It was a touchy subject often dropped whenever Vincent was in earshot, which she discovered was a surprisingly far range.  Some speculated it was also tied to the recent PR project involving another American, TJ Carter, a name that didn’t sound familiar to Sophia at all.  
  
Despite that, everything she got to see ran smoothly.  Vincent was busy, certainly, but he knew how to delegate and he knew what to do himself.

Her days were spent out in galleries and auction houses, or where Vincent wanted her overseeing transportation or restoration of particular pieces being taken care of.  He gave her leads on what he had heard, from who, where, and the identity of the man who had pushed her; the same man who had glared daggers at Vincent for nabbing the Moreau piece she now sat in front of, examining for imperfections herself before it went off to x-ray and infrared analysis.    
  
This painting was massive, and her eyes were tired.    
  
The works not hanging in his personal office or his home were kept in a storage facility; the staff was kind but kept their distance from her when they saw who’s property she was here to work with.  It made for a quiet work environment though, and for that, she was grateful.  
  
Sophia placed the magnifying glass down and scribbled a note over a picture of the painting covered in gridlines where she had stopped.  She wanted it to undergo the forensics as soon as possible so Vincent could do whatever it was he wanted with it.  The sooner it was hung and not kept here, the better; the security at his office and his home were far superior, he claimed, and she had feeling it was a matter of pride for it to hang as soon as possible.    
  
She rolled her head, trying to get the pain out of her neck.  She felt a headache building up behind her eyes as she stood up, stretching.  Sophia hoped she had packed a painkiller in her purse, otherwise she’d have to ask one of the employees.  She hated mooching off of people.  
  
She stood and went over to her pile of belongings on the opposite side of the room and dug through her large tote bag, pulling out a small bottle of over-the-counter migraine pills.  Perfect.    
  
Sophia took one, looking at the painting from a distance.  She had seen massive paintings before, and studied Moreau’s oeuvre extensively, but she hadn’t seen this one. Its provenance was riddled with private owners, never having been viewed for longer than a single show for years at a time.    
  
The paintings being stolen and replaced were already in permanent museum collections; that Vincent was concerned this one would be targeted either meant they were changing their MO or Vincent was wrong.  
  
A rarity, to be sure, but still a possibility.    
  
Or it was being purchased on behalf of a museum…  
  
They certainly had to have someone working in a museum or lab somewhere.  They could be working on behalf of an institution, thus being one of the inside people able to pull strings and control certain aspects-if a painting needed to be restored or cleaned, and when, which is around the time it made sense to replace the paintings.  
  
Sophia dug through her bag and scribbled down her train of thought.  Something to worry about later.  Right now, she needed to finish examining what was in front of her.

* * *

A few hours later, a man with red hair and hazel eyes entered quietly, a large folio under his arm.  She recognized him as the one who functioned as all manner of things for Vincent in his absence of a personal assistant.  He seemed, however, to never linger too long, only enough that his duties be satisfied.

She stood and exchanged pleasantries before the folio was held out to her.

“A lead, Miss Cousland.”  He spoke eloquently and bowed slightly.  

The envelope was stamped with various words, all of which she roughly understood to mean the contents were confidential and the property of someone very, very important.

“You have the weekend to finish it; it cannot be gone for too long.”  Eugene said before he turned and headed back towards the entrance.  “And be careful, no wine or coffee while reading.”

“Thank you, Eugene.”  She called, holding the folio tightly against her chest.

The manservant turned on his heel before he reached the doorway.  “Thank Vincent, not me.  He’s keen to see this through.”

He left without another word.

* * *

The apartment she was given was spacious, far more so than her New York accommodations.  The master bedroom was about the size of her previous apartment altogether and provided a view at night the likes of which she had never experienced before.  It was modern in its coloring, mostly white, the parquet floor restored to a shine close to their original finish.  The kitchen was small but connected to an open area living and dining room.

The extra bedroom served as her office area, a large desk littered in papers and her laptop,

Sophia curled up on the couch in the living room, papers from the file surrounding her.  A Mr. Alexandre Vasiley.  Director of a department at The Louvre.  Mid-40’s.  Prestigious education, several publications, well-connected throughout the art world.

Sophia frowned as she came upon a picture of him, candid, and flung it onto the coffee table.  She’d remember that visage anywhere.  He was distinct, much like her employer.

Eugene said this was a lead.  But what did a director from the Louvre have to do with this?  

Vincent distinctly mentioned the Louvre hadn’t been touched by these forgeries.  For obvious reasons.  It was seen by millions every day and had some of the best security.  

She sighed and set aside the documents for the night, her migraine back stronger than before.

* * *

Sophia had finished the file and given it back to Eugene that Sunday, making notes of what she could.  Photocopies and photos hadn’t been allowed, given the privacy concerns over the documentation.  

The painting was finished,  _finally_ , and she gave it approval to be forensically examined.  It had taken longer than she expected it too, partially because shipping had taken forever, but she hoped he would have it hung in a few weeks’ time.  

She wasn’t sure  _how_ Vincent had gotten his hands on the piece in front of her, but he had.  This was the one he had mentioned, the first one he saw with an incongruity.  Her blue eyes roamed the canvas resting on the small table easel and she wondered just what it was that Vincent saw.  

Well, she  _knew_.  He told her where the new figure was.

She wanted to suggest pigment analysis to figure out if there were any pigments not available when the painting was first done.  Something like titanium white wouldn’t have been around then…

But to ask for that would mean tipping off the museum’s lab.  And she couldn’t do it herself.

The one downside to being able to  _see_ the painting meant she wasn’t able to send it for testing; it was museum property and to even  _suggest_  a museum had a forgery…

Sophia sighed and stepped away from the table, running her fingers through her hair.  This piece was rarely photographed to begin with, and was rarely hung; it would be difficult to find proof to Vincent’s claims.

Even harder to find the forger without a trail.

Maybe she should step back for the night, take a break.  If these forgers were serious, they’d find another painting, and soon.

Sophia sighed, running her hands through her brown hair again to tie it back.  She’d come back in the morning, when she was bright-eyed and caffeinated.

She carefully placed the painting back into its place in the shelves for safekeeping and locked the door behind her.  She was halfway down the corridor when the lights cut, the safety lights above turning on almost immediately after, drowning the hall in a red glow.

Sophia reached for her phone and turned on the flashlight, listening.  It wasn’t the weather, it was to be cold but dry this week, so thunderstorms couldn’t be the cause.  Footsteps echoed behind her, someone running.  No lights and no alarm.  Odd.

She turned to catch a glimpse of a figure running towards the staircase and the back entrance, a small package tucked under one arm.  

_Stealing from a storage facility with as much security as a museum?_  She thought, heading in the same direction, starting off at a jog before breaking into a run.   _This is stupid…I don’t even know if this is connected.  But I could miss out on a lead if it is…_

Sophia was thankful she had a jacket with good pocket space and a small wallet instead of a backpack or a small purse.  It made this much easier.

It was dark but the lights did enough to give her an idea of the figure’s size.  Male, tall, fit but not overly bulky.  He knew the layout of the building well and clamored down the stairs two or three at a time when he saw he was being tailed.  

_Where’s security, anyway?  That’s strange._

She dashed down the stairs and through another short corridor before she came out into the alley.  Glancing around, she saw nothing but the brick of the other buildings, some garbage, and perhaps an errant rat.

_Where did…_

Sophia felt a sharp pain in the back of her head and she crumbled to the ground, her phone clattering down the alleyway.  The last thing she saw was a masked face leaning over her, speaking to someone else, before her vision gave way to darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

Eugene looked at his phone for the third time, wondering why the hell the American wasn't picking up her phone. She was where she had been for the past few hours, far longer than she usually was, according to the software in her phone.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the car, parked outside of Opera Garnier. Vincent's show wouldn't be over for another half-hour and he'd stay long enough to make rounds and receive acclaims for his score or his script. Forty-five minutes at the most.

He hated spying on Vincent's pet projects. Carter was annoying enough but at least his schedule was easier to follow.

Sophia Cousland was all over the place. Some days she stayed home. Other days she went walking all over Paris and needed to be tailed by seven different people.

And usually she answered his calls.

He sighed. Her phone was on; it would ring before rolling to voicemail.

So what the hell was she doing?

He had just enough time to get there and come back, if traffic was agreeable. The valet sighed and turned the engine over.

Eugene reached the storage facility and after a mention of his boss' name to security, he was able to access the room she usually worked in. When he caught no sight of her, he asked to see camera footage of the past few hours. The guard mentioned there was a brief power outage less than hour ago but that the outside cameras were on a different circuit and would be of more help.

It was.

Eugene watched as Sophia came into frame into the alleyway while a man crept up behind her and whacked her over the head. She crumbled, her phone falling from her hand onto the pavement. The man never bothered to pick it up.

The time stamp was only forty minutes ago.

He thanked the guard and then drove the car around the block to the alleyway. He got out and walked to the backdoor, staring at the camera for a moment before his hazel eyes fell on the phone. The screen was cracked.

He pulled out his own device and called Sophia's number again. The phone on the ground rang softly, the fractured screen lighting up and showing his name.

" _Merde_ ," he hissed, ending the call and picking up the other phone.

Eugene scrolled through his recent calls list and pressed Vincent's name. By now, he was probably mid-conversation with a critic. He hoped.

"Yes?" The familiar voice answered after a single ring.

"We have a problem, sir."

* * *

Sophia felt her body being lifted awkwardly, her feet dragging on the floor. It sounded like wood but she couldn't be sure. Her head pounded, pulsated to its own beat. Her eyes felt too heavy to even try to open. Her toes grazed something every few seconds. Stairs, she realized.

She was thrown haphazardly into a chair that tilted back with the weight thrown into it and handcuffed to the armrest. She winced as the chair snapped back up, her eyes opening and catching sight of a dim room, light coming from a few sources through the space. She groaned and then looked up when she heard footsteps.

The person who carried her stood off to her left, arms folded in front of him. Dark jacket and pants; she'd know professional security anywhere, she dealt with it enough back home. There was nothing remarkable about his face or body.

In front of her was a woman, dark haired and olive-skinned, staring back at her. Her mouth was set in a firm line, unamused and clearly bothered by her presence. She leaned on the table behind her casually but her brown eyes betrayed her stance with a flicker of wariness.

The man from earlier was to the woman's left-Sophia's right-and muttered something in French under his breath. The woman drew her gaze from the American in front of her to the side, finding a pile of boxes haphazardly covered in a sheet more entertaining as she listened to the man continue.

Sophia took this as a chance to look around and saw an easel not far behind the woman, bearing a painting she vaguely recognized. A glance around showed a few other canvases, stretchers, frames of varying ages. She caught sight of bottles of paint thinner or bases, tubes of paint strewn across a surface behind the man she had chased earlier.

There was no doubt now that she saw his face. Alexandre Vasiley. Just like his picture, blonde hair, brown eyes, but far more aggravated.

"So," the woman began, drawing her eyes back to Sophia's, "do you make a habit of following thieves?"

Her accent was French, tinged with the remnants of a Middle Eastern accent.

"Only when they interrupt me working," Sophia replied, fighting her headache.

The woman was in charge here, then. That much was obvious enough. She laughed softly, as if she were at a cocktail party and not in a dusty and dirty room surrounded by junk.

"Who are you, American? And what were you doing in a storage and lab facility so late? You're too old to be a student."

_This woman wastes no time._

Alexandre passed her Sophia's New York license and the passport she kept in her wallet in her jacket, bundled to the side of the wallet. The leather wallet was open on the table behind the woman, her bank and credit cards still inside but papers, business cards, and receipts were spread out in front of him.

"Sophia Cousland. New York. Astoria?"

"Queens. New York City."

Sophia's reply earned her a burning glare hotter than a fresh black cup of coffee.

"You came here months ago. Long-term visa, residency permit. Someone had to  _give_ you that apartment, that neighborhood is far out of your price range." She threw the paperwork on the floor, her passport opened to the title page, Sophia's picture staring back at her. "You're employed, then, Sophia Cousland. But by who?"

"None of your concern."

"It  _is_ my concern when some American pokes her nose into something that does not concern her!" She hissed, leaning forward, her grip on the edge of the table turning her knuckles white. "You could have walked away. But you didn't. And now you're here."

Vasiley stared at Sophia, as if memorizing her face. Or trying to place her. Sophia glared at the two of them and said nothing.

" _Rien au-dessus du col._ " The older woman muttered, stepping away from the table and walking away as the bodyguard took her place in front of Sophia.

_Nothing above the collar? What-_  Sophia's train of thought halted as soon as the handcuffs were undone and she was thrown to the floor by her shirt.

" _Cela signifie pas de commotions cérébrales!_ " The woman shouted. "No concussions! We need her awake!"

Sophia gasped as a foot landed with her stomach and knocked the wind out of her. Every few blows, the man paused and Sophia only glared at him in return. The exchange continued. Her limbs were twisted, her fingers bent back, her knee stepped on with only enough pressure to bruise, not rupture the joint.

"Enough!" Vasiley's voice rang through the space. The man paused and stepped away from Sophia and the pair came back, staring at the bruised American.

"She doesn't quite look eager to talk, Alex," the woman said, circling Sophia slowly.

"She works for Karm, Catherine. At least...in some capacity. He's not a man to mess with," his voice was cautious, as if he too were walking thin ice with the woman.

He said Vincent's last name like it was dirtiest word to ever cross his lips.

"Isn't he at the top of the list of men to never recruit?" Catherine asked.

"Along with Raphael Laurent. Too much bad blood between them, too many grey dealings."

The exchange stopped when they realized they were saying too much in the presence of an outsider.

"Maybe we can use him, though," Alexandre crossed his arms, thinking aloud. "He's a collector. He's...intense, but his interest in art is always sincere. An outsider might be more useful than we think."

"We're already  _dealing_  with an outsider. That's why you brought me back," Catherine muttered, turning away from Sophia.

Sophia watched the exchange, her breathing ragged. She tasted blood in her mouth and it hurt to breathe too quickly. Her knee screamed when she tried to bend it and any twitch in her hands resulted in agony. There was something deeper here, between them. A list of people not to recruit, but recruit to what? Outsiders, but what kind?

"Look," Sophia gritted. "I came here to work privately, handle collections. I have access to clients, and probably to other museums if I ask around."

_That_ caught Catherine's attention.

"Alexandre is one of the most well-connected directors in Paris, you're useless. And conspicuous.  Americans always are." Bitterness was laced into her words.

"I worked the American gallery system. I can't imagine it's much different. It's a matter of pride to show an outsider the capacities and histories of the country they're staying in."

Vincent had taken her to sites major and minor, talked about France as if the country was a  _person_. Said she needed to understand the streets she walked if she was going to get anywhere close to a lead. To understand why someone would damage its citizens' beautiful works.

"Alexandre Vasiley is conspicuous," Sophia continued. "He's a director in one of the world's most famous museums. His name alone brings a crowd of academics and other directors and critics. I remember you," she looked at Vasiley, his eyes narrowed at her in return. "You spent most of the evening with two people from the Met and one from the Mauritshuis."

That earned her another glare but neither of her captors said anything. Catherine held up a finger before pulling Alexandre aside.

"Karm is an asset. If we make him an enemy, he won't hesitate to expose everything," Sophia could just make out Alexandre's hiss before the two of them fell into French and she wasn't able to translate quickly enough.

They came back and Catherine helped Sophia up carefully, placing her back in the chair she was first in. Two other chairs were pulled up. Alexandre held out a water bottle and Sophia took it, wincing at the movement to get her fingers around the plastic.

"Proper introductions are in order," Catherine started as she settled down and placed a bottle of wine at her feet and held her glass carefully. "Catherine DeValois. And you already know of Alex, obviously. Most people do."

She leaned back in her seat, assessing Sophia as she took a sip of wine.

"I fled Paris years ago. I left behind a husband of good standing and a young daughter. I loved them both but I would have put them in danger if I stayed."

There was more to that story but Sophia got the feeling she'd never get it.

"What do you know?" Alex asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"Only that someone is forging paintings. Barely. More like adding scenes or figures that are chronologically possible but not true to the original piece. I would say similar to Beltracchi's method in spirit but with different motivation."

They pressed her and eventually the words she had told Vincent the other day came out when she realized there was no way she was leaving without telling what she knew.

"They're a message. Warning of danger. But a danger only certain people would understand. It's all coded."

Catherine smirked and raised her glass, silently applauding her for her deduction.

She was ushered out a while later, wallet and jacket in hand. "We'll be in touch, mademoiselle. Perhaps a history lesson might be in order." As she slid on the jacket, Catherine smirked. "And if you tell, we'll know."

A blindfold was slipped over her eyes when she was walked to a car and the next thing she knew, she was outside of her building, wondering how she was going to explain this to Vincent in a few hours.

* * *

Sophia unlocked the door, the apartment dark as she expected it to be. Out of habit, she turned on the light and removed her shoes, this time with some difficulty.

It wasn't until she had looked up from her task that she caught a figure sitting in an armchair, facing the door. Vincent. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair and his fingers were steepled. She opened her mouth to make a sound but the shout died in her throat when he moved only to place a finger of his lips.

Peridot eyes bore into her with an intensity she didn't know anyone was capable of. His brow was furled slightly, as if he was thinking deeply, but the frown on his face showed something else. Annoyance. Anger. He made another gesture and she turned to see Eugene, face impassive, his hands placing her back in the position she was in and patting her down carefully.

He ran his fingers under the collar of her jacket and found a tiny silver dot, no bigger than a battery found in a car remote. The valet walked over and handed it to Vincent who turned it over in his hands, his eyes only leaving Sophia's long enough to acknowledge the device and crush it between his thumb and index finger.

"Do you make a habit of scaring people like this?" She snapped, her head pounding. The light was too bright and she couldn't look at him any longer without a wave of nausea hitting her.

"When they're reckless and endanger my plans, yes."

He was far too calm for her liking.

"I was following a lead," she explained, willing her tongue to work despite her pain.

"That almost compromised everything."

"And you wouldn't have been angry with me if I let them get away?" She snapped again. "I was following my instinct. And it was  _right_."

"And what did your haste get you, Ms. Cousland?" His eyes ran from her feet to her head once, scanning her. "At least a bad knee for a week or two. A few sprained fingers. A bruised rib, perhaps?"

Something in her snapped and anger replaced her nausea and her pain.

"I was doing what you asked, what you hired me to do. I didn't ask to have the shit beaten out of me for it. I got what you wanted, a  _lead_. That should be enough."

Silence passed between them, her blue eyes glaring at the man who had set her on this course in the first place. Her breathing was unsteady, pained, and blood pounded in her head, the agony doubled from the spike in her blood pressure.

Her glare died and was replaced with slight confusion when Vincent's lips turned into a smirk and he let out a breath through his nose.

"So the icy American from New York has claws after all."

Sophia said nothing and when he gestured, she sat on the edge of the couch closest to the door, sitting awkwardly to stretch her leg out and give her knee a break. A hand over her shoulder, Eugene's, she assumed, held out an ice pack wrapped in a towel and she took it.

She vaguely recognized that Vincent wasn't in his usual suit, a bowtie around his neck instead. Had she interrupted something?

She explained what happened, told about Catherine, how his lead on Vasiley had been correct. He ran "DeValois" over his tongue silently as she continued, as if the name meant something to him.

"Did you tell them who you work for?" He interrupted her.

"I didn't have to. Vasiley remembered you from the auction. He drew the conclusion himself after he looked through my passport and the copy of my visa."

He frowned but fell silent again, letting her continue.

"She said they would be in touch," Sophia finished. "So I must have done something right."

"They want to keep an eye on you. On me. They wouldn't have bugged you otherwise," Vincent murmured, his eyes falling from her to the books on her table in thought. "Only certain people would be able to decipher the paintings. And Paris itself has too long of a history with various groups to pinpoint just one."

Vincent rose from his seat and fixed his cuffs.

"Rest your knee for a few days. I'll send a doctor in the morning."

Eugene anticipated his boss' movements and moved to the door, opening it in time for the businessman to step through without even so much as as 'good night'. The valet gave a slightly sympathetic glance to her knee, his brow quirking slightly. A gesture she was beginning to pick up whenever he was in agreement with their mutual benefactor.

The door was locked behind them with a soft click after the turn of a key.

Sophia released a long breath and stretched back slightly, wincing at the pain from her abdomen. This wasn't what she was expecting when she took his job. Research, legwork. But not a beating. Not sprained fingers and likely fractured ribs.

If it was minor, they wouldn't have beaten her. That much was obvious to her and to Vincent. This was bigger than the two of them and their single hired muscle. A list of people. Mentions of outsiders. It wasn't framed like a criminal activity, they didn't speak about shipments or buyers or anything else that gave away their agenda.

Warnings. The paintings were warnings for the right people.

But to who?

She let out a sound of frustration and moved her leg slowly and bent her knee to rest her foot on the floor. Sophia hissed when she stood and hobbled into the kitchen to put the ice pack back in the freezer. Her bed seemed so far away. But she needed the rest. Badly.

Slowly, she made her way across the apartment, using the wall as support as she went. Her knee screamed, her head throbbed. Her fingers protested as she turned her bedside lamp on and began getting ready for bed.

It wasn't until she sat on the edge of the bed some moments later that she noticed a glass of water, a bottle of aspirin, and a note. Sophia raised an eyebrow at the note and the smallest smile crossed her face. She knew that handwriting well by now, the one that signed her work visa paperwork and that was all over files and notes Eugene gave to her.

_"Do be more careful next time."_


	5. Chapter 5

In the months that followed, Sophia darted between her lives.  The one she lived for Vincent and the one she lived for Catherine.

They only overlapped in the interest of forgeries and schedules.  

“Buying out their paintings isn’t going to work if they know I’m connected to you,” Vincent said one night.  “The information should be enough.  Get evidence where you can.”

She began keeping separate lists of purchase ideas for either one.  She worked her debt down when she could and she pointed Alexandre in the direction of paintings that fit their ideas.  Ones where changes would be small but fitting for an addition.  She kept pictures and copies and handed them off to Vincent, who in turn kept them in his office safe.

She had a late night last night, Catherine elusive as ever about  _why_ she was doing this.  Sophia asked what she meant about outsiders, about why Alexandre Vasiley of all people was doing this.  Someone just as invested in the institutions, given his profession.

“It’s not about integrity.  It  _is_ about keeping the status quo, to some extent, but sometimes integrity must be sacrificed for that,” the older woman said, her nose close to the canvas.  “The people he’s associated with are powerful, as powerful as your employer and then some.  Talented.  Unique.  Fragmented.”

The only hint she ever got to there being a larger hand at play.

She had Googled Catherine DeValois before she went to sleep.  The woman was dead.  But the pictures that came up with her name confirmed she was, in fact, who she claimed to be.  Wife of a politician.  Beloved by all.

So what was she doing, hiding in the shadows?

It was slow.  Her knee ached whenever she stepped into Catherine’s hideout and her head hurt every time she met or spoke with Vincent.

Like today.

She did a double take when Vincent’s name came across her screen as her phone rang.  She swiped to answer it and put the phone to her ear.  “Hello?”

“I need you to accompany me on a business trip of sorts,”  Vincent said.  “For the weekend.”

No preamble.  No greeting.  He seemed…testy.

“When?”

“Now, preferably.  I’m downstairs.  Ten minutes.”

She stared at her phone in disbelief after he ended the call.  The gall.  She shouldn’t have been surprised, really.  But it irked her nonetheless.

Sophia muttered under her breath as she got dressed and fixed her hair.  Having failed to say  _what_ kind of business trip it was, she chose clothes she would wear to work to be safe.  A cute blouse, black slacks.  She had forgotten to take her makeup off last night in her exhaustion and quickly cleaned her face as much as possible.  The bags under her eyes weren’t avoidable but she did her best to make it appear as though she was more awake than she actually was.  

She threw clothes into a small carry-on case she had shoved under her bed the day she unpacked.  She’d re-wear things if she had to and buy the things she forgot.  

Sophia scooped up her jacket and purse on the way out and arrived downstairs with a minute to spare.

She got into the car and settled in as Eugene put her suitcase in the trunk.  Sophia had only been in this car a few times; it was Vincent’s preferred one, he had mentioned, but it was only used on longer trips or important events.  A Maybach wasn’t necessarily rare but it turned heads when it needed to and provided any possible luxury accomodations.  

Eugene returned to the driver’s seat and a moment later pulled away from the curb, heading in the direction of the A10.

Vincent held out a coffee cup, which she took quickly as he pulled out one of the car’s folding tables.  He then placed several folders on the table in front of her.

She looked through them to find them, once again, stamped confidential, one or two of them bearing a government seal.

“Are these…Interpol records?” Sophia glanced at him, trying to keep her eyebrow from raising.  

He was wearing sunglasses for the first time since they met and she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or past her.  It was winter and the snow glare was dreadful, she couldn’t fault him for wearing them, truthfully.

“Possible threats and intelligence on threats to Paris,” he replied with ease, not looking at her as he took a sip of his own drink.  “Whatever they’re supposedly warning people of has to be from within the nation, if not the city.”

He didn’t give a further answer and instead plucked a pair of headphones laying at his side and put them on.  

So much for throwing ideas at him.  She could use his brain.  Hers was too frazzled to function correctly.

She flipped through the files, the silence deafening.  She wasn’t about to attempt to untangle the earbuds in her bag to fill it; it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence.  Vincent was someone who knew who to make people sit on the edge of their seat but she was used to him by now to not be.  

She made it through the first file when she looked over at Vincent again, his head lolled towards the window slightly.  His breathing was slow but measured, consistent.

_Is he…asleep?_   She thought.  

“He does this on trips to Meslay-le-Vidames,” Eugene said, meeting her eyes in the mirror.  He’d been watching her, apparently.  She leaned forward slightly against the table, as if afraid Vincent could hear them.  “He leaves the city when he needs a change of scenery, a nap helps a little.”

“It’s only ten in the morning.”  

“You weren’t the only one who had a late night, Ms. Cousland.”  He paused as he directed his attention back to the road before speaking again. “He’ll be busy for most of the weekend; this isn’t a break.  He doesn’t often take them.”

Sophia sat back in her seat and went back to reading as they left the outskirts of the city and headed south.  She caught up on social media when she was finished with making notes and couldn’t stand to read more government jargon.  

Soon enough, they were driving through narrow country roads and heading into Meslay-le-Vidames.  It was rural and reminded her of family trips to the midwest, flat land spanning for miles.  They parted from the main town and drove down a long driveway before arriving in front of a chateau, two guardhouses on either side of a metal gate, green with age.  Eugene drove through it and pulled up to the house.  One wing to the right of the house stretched towards the gate,

Sophia could make out a clock at the apex of the roof, held by figures carved in relief.

It was a beautiful house, although she would have thought something along the lines of Versailles to be more his taste.  It was smaller than she imagined his country home would be.  

Vincent shifted in the seat next to her and took off the headphones, giving no indication he had been asleep a few moments ago.

“Oh, good, they’re early,” he murmured.

A few other cars and a van were unpacking, unloading a few boxes.  Sophia caught sight of a few models in the van, their attention caught by the Maybach’s presence.  A younger man with dark skin and dressed in black slacks and a white shirt, was giving directions to the two or three people bringing things inside.  Sophia raised an eyebrow at the orange bow tie but then again, Vincent’s tie was sometimes styled as a cravat.  

Maybe French fashion was just…odd.

“TJ Carter. I was supposed to look at his collection in his studio.  Thankfully, he’s flexible and was willing to make the trip.”  His tone gave away a tiny hint of annoyance at the entire thing.

_Why do I get the feeling it was more of his hand being forced than flexibility?_  Sophia mused as she watched the scene unfold for a moment.

Vincent exited the vehicle before she could ask what she was even doing here.

* * *

Eugene led her to the drawing room where a couch sat facing an open doorway, a few chairs arranged around the couch.  In the narrow rooms nearby, TJ had set up camp.  The set-up followed the general layout for a runway without the raised platform.  

There were a few photographers, a journalist or two, but no sign of Vincent yet.  Eugene pulled her aside, out of the room.

“Before you watch, something to keep in mind.  There’s a scale. One nod is good, two nods is very good. There’s only been one actual smile on record and that was three years ago. If he doesn’t like it he shakes his head. Then of course there’s the pursing of the lips.”

“Which means?”  Sophia looked back at the room where lights were being adjusted.  She saw Vincent walk in and sit down on the couch, scrolling through his phone as if he was bored.

He probably was.

“Catastrophe.”  Eugene hissed.  “He brings people like TJ here to test them.”

“Like TJ?”  She raised her eyebrows and the valet rephrased.

“From my understanding, you’re not seeking fame or fortune, not…to the same degree.  The people in that room…they want their name  _known_ and  _remembered_.  Vincent is the man for that.”

_Credit for exposing a plot against Paris_ would _make my name remembered.  But I’m not openly working, like TJ._

“So why did he bring me here?”

“Probably for the same reason he decided last night to come here.”

Sophia gestured with open hands as the valet walked around her to stand just inside the doorway.

“Because he wanted to.”  Eugene whispered as he ushered her into the room.

She took a seat behind the couch, at the opposite end to Vincent; it gave her a good view of the room and of his expressions.  If he noticed her, he didn’t show it.

A small pug trotted into the room and hopped up onto the couch next to Vincent, who reached out and scratched the dog’s ear without even looking at him.  The dog laid down and kept his eyes fixed on the open door.  

TJ gave a few opening remarks on concepts before heading back behind the scenes. Model after model came out soon after in a barrage of color and shapes and ideas, the only sounds in the space coming from the clicking of heels, the rustling of fabric, and the snapping of cameras.  At the sights, Sophia thought some of the designs were fitting of his idea; impractical, perhaps, but painstakingly made by hand, creative, drawn from his time in the city.

One nod, mostly.  The occasional second nod.  Mostly Vincent seemed pleased, or at least satisfied with the young man’s progress.  

Until the last dress.  The proverbial nail in the coffin.  TJ has walked out with that model and silently ushered her away when he saw Vincent’s expression.

He looked terrified.  

Vincent’s criticism was something she had yet to behold.  And Sophia wondered if she ever wanted to.

Sophia took that as her cue to leave.  She barely glanced at Eugene as she left, and, not entirely to her surprise, she wasn’t the only one who read the room and decided leaving was a better choice.  One journalist and the photographers left, likely to either grab some opinions of the staff or catch a return trip to the city as soon as possible.

Sophia returned to her bedroom and let herself instead be engrossed in the research of Parisian secret societies and her notes on the coding of the paintings.

She didn’t come down for dinner.

* * *

The next morning she found herself staring at a blank wall above an impressive fireplace flanked by floor to ceiling windows.  Vincent’s library, like the rest of the house, was magnificent.  Most of it was updated with modern amenities, while other decor fixtures were true to the nature and style of the house.

She looked at the sheet-covered painting and then back to the wall.  It had arrived days before they did. It would dominate the room despite the lack of real estate it was being given.  The windows framed it perfectly.

She was broken from her thoughts by Vincent’s entrance, followed by several more men carrying various pieces of equipment and a larger ladder.

“I thought, perhaps, you’d like to see it hanging properly,” Vincent said, standing beside her, arms behind his back proudly.  “And then we can move on to other pieces.”

Sophia could only nod.  The men went straight to work, measuring and placing anchors before they were ready to raise the framed canvas and set it onto the wall.

“The Ten Plagues,” she said, her eyes focused on the precarious positioning of the frame.  “All of the forgeries are using some reference to the Book of Exodus.”

Vincent hummed in thought.  “Interesting choice.  First Testament rather than Revelations.”

“Revelations is too specific about the end of days, I think.  Catherine won’t say  _why_ , only that she was told to use those instead.”

“Someone is giving her orders.”

“More like Alex gets orders, who then gives them to Catherine.  But without her, it falls apart.”

They both fell silent as the ladders and equipment were taken away, leaving the pair to stare at the painting, prominent and dominating.  

“ _Parfait_ ,” Vincent murmured.

“Like it was always here,” she agreed.

It  _did_ look right at home on the wall, fitting perfectly into the rest of the room.  It drew from colors in the furniture, the area rugs, the spines of the books throughout the space.  It was as if it didn’t belong anywhere else.  Her eyes were fixed on the canvas even when Vincent turned away to leave the room.

“Come, I’ll give you a tour.”

She took a step back, finally ripping her eyes from the painting to follow Vincent down the hall.  Sophia listened as he pointed to artifacts throughout the house, to the architecture and rooms.  The house used to belong to the mayor of the nearby town, he mentioned as they walked, delving into the history of the building.  

_Didn’t Eugene say he would be busy all weekend?  What is he doing with me?_   She thought as they passed through the foyer to cross to the other wing of the house.

Their tour ended with the living room, or one of them, rather, one half housing a TV and comfortable sectional couch and large coffee table.  The pug from yesterday was curled up into a corner of the couch, watching.

“I was wondering where you went off to, Esteban,” Vincent murmured, the dog’s head perking up at the sight of his owner.

The pug jumped down from the couch but seemed to hesitant the closer he drew to Sophia, his ears perked back slightly.  He stopped, eyes wide, tail still.

She looked at Vincent only to find him focused on his dog, as if curious as to what he would do.  

Sophia knelt onto the carpet and held out a hand for Esteban to sniff.  He stared at her hand and then back at her face as his nose twitched and he moved closer.  She’d been around dogs before but Esteban seemed more cautious than others she’d ever met, as if assessing whether she was worthy to be in his home.

His tail began to wag and his ears moved forward as he licked her fingers and then bumped his head against her hand.

“Hi, Esteban,” Sophia said, petting him softly.  

He snorted, revelling in the attention for a moment before trotting over to Vincent and sitting, cocking his head.  Vincent’s expression was unreadable, digesting the previous moment before a small smile broke out across his lips, Esteban’s tail wagging.

“Oh,  _now_ you want me,” he teased. “I see how it is.”

The dog waited and got the petting he wanted as Vincent knelt down to greet the dog, who put his paws onto his owner’s lap and reached up, his tongue grazing Vincent’s nose.  She had heard him speak of the dog before and saw the painting in his office, but she had never met Esteban.  Eugene had made it sound as though few people did; the dog was Vincent’s pride and joy, a companion whose loyalty was never questioned.

Sophia smiled softly, watching for a moment before Esteban licked Vincent’s hand a final time and went back to the couch.  

“He’s sweet,” she murmured, her eyes falling back to Vincent.

“Esteban is one of the only constants in my life,” he said, the remnants of the happy moment with the pug gone from his face.

He turned to the pool table taking up the other half of the room.  “Do you play?”

“Not well, but yes.”

Vincent handed her a pool cue of dark wood, pulling the white cue ball from one of the pockets and lining up an opening shot.  They took turns in silence only broken by the clicking of balls hitting one another until Sophia spoke.

“What didn’t you like about TJ’s last piece yesterday?”

It was something that bothered her; he liked the rest of the collection from what she could tell.  She didn’t know enough about couture to understand the nature of the industry but it fit in with the thematic narrative TJ had been going for.  

Vincent lined up another shot, head low to the table.  He glanced up at her.

“You’re being nosy, Ms. Cousland.”

He took the shot and sent one ball into a pocket and moved on.  She couldn’t tell if he was waiting for her to continue her thought or simply move on to a different topic of conversation.

“I’m…trying to understand your taste.  If I have a sense of what you  _don’t_ like, it helps me narrow my focus for your collection.”

“I did tell you unique and rare.”

“Which runs the gambit of thousands of years of history.”

It truly  _would_  help if she knew what he didn’t like.  The more paintings and sculptures and artifacts she found that he liked, she would know what to look for and what to avoid.  His taste bled into everything around him, from the way he dressed to the way he decorated his house.  Color came from the accessories, from his waistcoat and pocket square, from the Koons  _Balloon Dog_  and the painting of Esteban, from the Persian carpet and spines of books.  Wood furniture had small decorations but was mostly utilitarian, ranging from a warm, honey colored antique oak to cherry to mahogany.  His office didn’t match the rest of his corporate surroundings, the conference rooms and other offices all glass and sleek and modern.  

She took a shot, two striped balls clicking softly into a pocket.  As she lined up a second one, she said, “You, Vincent Karm, are a contradiction. You like color but rarely wear it.  Your personal taste is mostly classic but your business taste is modern; your office is the meeting point for those two worlds.  You present a kitschy, cliche persona and yet you thrive on standing apart.”

Sophia went a third time after knocking another striped into a pocket across the table.  Her streak was over; she’d missed, but only just.

She glanced up to find peridot eyes a little wider than normal, eyebrows raised.  She held his gaze, watching him, the quiet peppered with the soft snorts of Esteban, asleep.  He looked so innocent, as if he couldn’t comprehend he had let someone else read him so easily.

_He didn’t expect that._   Sophia thought, watching as he flicked his eyes down and assessed the table.

“It was overdone,” he murmured, tilting his head as his eyes traced a pattern across the felt.  “It meshed concepts that philosophically made sense but didn’t come through in execution.  Reaching.”

Sophia hummed, thinking the dress over in her head.  She could see what he meant; TJ had to thoroughly explain the concept before anyone in the room had nodded.  He shouldn’t have had to explain so much and just let the clothing speak for itself.

They finished their game some time later, Vincent never once looking at his watch.  He won, of course; her focus was gone after Eugene had come into the room to retrieve Esteban for lunch and remind Vincent of his afternoon appointment.  She returned the pool cue to the rack near the window as Vincent went over to the couch and settled in with one of the packets Eugene had left for him on the coffee table.

She went to leave and head down to the kitchen to ask about lunch when Vincent called after her.

“Yes?”

Without taking his eyes off of the paper, he said, “Make sure you come down for dinner, please.”

She gave an affirmation and left, her stomach growling softly as she retraced her steps across the house.

* * *

Dinner had been a quiet affair, quieter than she had expected it to be.  TJ, too, had stayed the weekend, and was seated across from her, Vincent to her right.  They were joined by a few other people she had never met before, investors, she assumed.  She had picked out a dress she’d thrown into her suitcase once Eugene mentioned other guests; at least she had something appropriate. 

Sophia observed, only speaking when someone asked her a question directly.  Her French was still rusty and she didn’t trust herself in front of strangers.  TJ was the one who did the most talking, she noticed, Vincent assessing him every so often and interjecting.

So they were negotiating.  Over what, she couldn’t entirely tell.  

Everyone filed into one of the nearby sitting rooms for drinks afterwards and the talks continued, Vincent stepping back once TJ seemed to have control of the conversation.  She’d taken a seat by a window, scrolling through her phone once before setting it aside and conversing with one of the other guests, a woman who had been two seats down from her.  She abruptly excused herself when Vincent made his rounds, stopping to sit next to her and watch the room.

“You’ve been quiet,” he observed.  “Doesn’t Arthur do dinner parties?”

“I was usually only there for prep or pre-dinner drinks.  I prefer smaller gatherings,” she shrugged, sipping her wine.  “You’re negotiating, correct?”

“Studio space and a contract for funding to ease some of my burden.  He’s new to the  _règles du jeu_ , they’d swallow him whole if they could,”  he chuckled softly, taking a sip of his Old Fashioned.  “They have to at least see me, understand he isn’t someone they can toy with.”

“They have to think they’re winning.  When in reality, you are.”  She gave him a sidelong glance before raising her glass to her lips again and watching the scene before them.

“To be concise, yes.”

Neither spoke for a moment, the chatter of the room filling her head and making it fuzzy for a moment.  One of the nice things about being out here was the quiet, the occasional sounds of animals outside going about their lives.  It was nice to be out of the city for once.

“It’s peaceful here,” Sophia murmured, rolling the stem of the now-empty wine glass between her fingers carefully.  “Thank you for inviting me.”

“You’re quite welcome.”  

Vincent appeared as though he was about to say something else but his attention was caught by another across the room who called his name.  He excused himself and joined the conversation, offering his input.  She gazed around the room and TJ’s eyes caught hers and he waved her over, inviting her into the circle of people sitting in the center of the room.  They had only spoken a few sentences to each other, but she got the sense both of them were strangers in a strange land, two foreigners in need of something familiar.

She spent the rest of the night engrossed in conversation, all thoughts of her second life forgotten, if only for a moment.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last third of this chapter contains blood and character death, from "The door was jammed" onward.

Late winter gave way to spring, and by the end of May, she felt the only progress she made was in changing her wardrobe for the season.  June brought an unexpected heat, one she sometimes found cloying.

She had accompanied Vincent to the art fairs, to the freeports where he stored art he expected to be able to turn over quickly. She facilitated and closed most of the deals he wanted.  It helped some of them remembered her, knew her from her time with Arthur.

The Armory show meant New York, riverside, a view of New Jersey and the (sometimes awful) smell of  _home._ Well, almost home; she’d grown up across the Hudson, in the depths of western New Jersey.  But the sight was comforting.  Without looking at her as they disembarked the plane, Vincent said he would give her two nights off to catch up with friends.  Something he said he rarely, if ever, granted, but she was here and she’d been doing…satisfactory in her first year so far.

They returned to Paris a week later. Vincent sold more than he bought, and it would sit in his freeport in customs until he wanted to bring it into the country officially.  

He already had flights scheduled for London and Basel for the summer season.  

TJ became an unexpected companion when she wasn’t working but one she was wary of.  She knew Eugene reported to Vincent, who in turn would bring up things she never mentioned to him personally; ever since her first encounter with Catherine DeValois and Alexandre Vasiley, she was quick to second-guess what she said to whom.  It was confirmed when she gave a tiny detail to TJ that later came from Vincent’s lips that she learned to watch her back.

So much for trust.

He was Vincent’s rising star.  One that needed his attention, approval, and praise in order to succeed.  He would do what Vincent asked of him, although she wasn’t entirely sure it was out of a positive quid pro quo.  There were days the designer looked absolutely grim after his meetings with their mutual benefactor and all he could say was to be careful.  There were questions, sometimes, when he saw her a morning after a late night organizing the next target; all she could say was that she spent her free time looking over paintings for a project.  Not a total lie.

Vincent knew what she was doing.  But she wasn’t about to get someone else tied into the mess she was in.

It still bothered her, months later, that he never did explain why he had brought her with him that weekend.  The break was nice, certainly, but Vincent never did anything without cause.

She knew enough about him to know that, at least.

The first week of April had been Vincent’s birthday, an affair that rivaled the auction he first invited her to back in New York.  She’d returned home one night to find the invitation back to his chateau in her mail; barring illness, she had no choice but to attend.  Sophia spent the night making necessary social rounds, flirting when she let herself, before wandering the halls for peace and quiet.  She left his gift, a series of replacement cartridges for a fountain pen he always carried with him, on the pool table before heading to bed, tired from the smiles and the niceties.  She fared better with gallery openings, where she was working and obtaining prices, or smaller parties where conversations were more robust.

Vincent bought the art she suggested sometimes and others he simply gave her information about and sent her on her way to procure them for him.  A frightening prospect.  He sold one of his pieces that never saw the light of day only to drag her with him to a dinner party and assist Eugene in taking it back after he saw the travesty the piece would be dwelling in and she made a passing remark that it didn’t belong there.

Sophia could say one thing: working for Vincent Karm was never dull.

It held true in her second life.  She simply functioned for them as she did Vincent, only using her resources to locate paintings to be stolen and replaced.  She  _felt_ like she knew what she was doing but there were times she couldn’t wrap her head around her late nights.

It was exciting.  Exhausting.  Sometimes fulfilling.  But boring?  Never.

* * *

“What exactly am I looking at?”  Sophia cast the flashlight on her phone at the metal slab in front of her.

In the dim light of the waterway, she could make out a figure of a woman, perhaps a nun or a saint or simply a virgin figure.  Her left hand was placed over her heart with her right hand up in benediction, her hair covered.  A halo was carved behind her head.

_Saint, then.  But why is she down here, where no one would see her?_   Sophia mused.

The rest of the slab was covered in more imagery she couldn’t make out.

She didn’t know why the three of them were down here, although occasionally she did take walks with Alexandre around the city when Catherine was painting.  This time, the older woman joined them, much to her surprise.  When she realized they were going underground, Sophia was thankful she’d worn good shoes and a light jacket.  

“Is this a…” she cast a light down at the deep, empty pit to her left, dry as a bone,  “waterway?”

Sophia turned back to find Catherine looking away dismissively and Alexandre’s brown eyes watching her, assessing her the way she’d seen professors do.

“Why are we down here?” Sophia pressed, narrowing her eyes at the pair.

_I’m going to be murdered, aren’t I?  This is how it happens.  Following people underground thinking nothing of it…_

“You’ve trusted us and helped our…cause.  Alex thought, perhaps, it was time for a brief…explanation.” Catherine explained.  “Not that he’ll tell much more with me here.”

Sophia’s stomach lurched at the mention of ‘cause’ but she swallowed her concern.  She hoped it didn’t show in the dim light.

“Thank you, for perpetuating our sexist stereotypes,” the man muttered bitterly.

“Yes, well, I have yet to see that change much,” Catherine turned away after muttering something in Arabic, flicking her flashlight over the wall as if looking for something of note.  

Sophia watched Vasiley’s eyes bore into the older woman’s back almost venomously before turning his gaze back to Sophia.  He was the one who guided them here yet he was hesitating, second guessing his actions.  

“Paris sits on an island, partially,” he began.  “These gates help control the flow of water throughout the city, preventing parts of the city from being flooded while allowing other areas to have access when their supply is too low.  Lutetia’s blood, so to speak.”

“Lutetia?” Sophia frowned, unfamiliar with the name.

Vasiley scoffed and muttered something bitterly.  “Americans don’t get much global history, do they?”

“Not outside of university, no. And sometimes, not even then,” the younger woman snapped.  “Is that name supposed to mean something?”

“The old Paris.  From Roman rule,” Catherine interjected.  “The catacombs were limestone mines for the Romans before they were reworked into an ossuary.  Parts of the ancient city remain, if you know where to look.”

“There are…” Vasiley cast his eyes around as he dug into his pocket.  He pulled out something small and flat that glinted in the light and gestured for Sophia to come closer.  “Protectors of the city.  Members of old bloodlines or those who have contributed highly to societal developments.”

Sophia looked at the coin, held just out of reach.  It looked  _ancient_ , worn, and certainly Roman inspired.  It held a face on one side and a crest on the other.  

“Members have one of these.  They’re emblems of Lutetia’s blood, her protectors.”

The first conversation she had with the pair came back to her.  Outsiders.  Catherine seemed more knowledgeable than she let on, had mentioned a husband and a child.  But called herself an outsider, berated Alexandre for considering another one.  That was what she had meant, Sophia realized.  Those outside of this…order.  But was it occult or political?  Or just absolute bullshit?

“That’s more than enough,” Catherine said.  “You said you were given clearance to tell her about the order, not a history lesson.”

Tension rose in the air between the two, Alexandre slipping the coin back into his pocket as the two shared a glance, Catherine’s eyes as hard and cold as the stone surrounding them.  She said something in Arabic that Vasiley responded to almost poisonously, catching himself at the last second.  

Sophia felt her mouth open of its own accord, questions piling into her brain before she could stop and think them through.  One part was curious, the other skeptical.  What if it was a weird cult, or worse yet, a terrorist cell?  How did she know  _they_  wasn’t the ones threatening the city?  She had let a few words slip from her lips before Catherine cut her off, shushing her harshly.

“Questions later.  We need to leave before they wonder why Alex was down here so long.”

They made their way back to the entrance and the surface, the night air cool and refreshing compared to the stagnant air from the waterway.  

* * *

The attic had a certain charm to it, Sophia admitted, despite the clutter and the bare bones and the drafts, even in the spring.  The lighting was harsh, lots of bare light bulbs with patches of darkness in corners.  Canvas tarps covered the windows at times, depending on whether they were needed elsewhere.  

It had once been an apartment, she’d discovered.  In addition to the large work and storage space, there was a kitchen, small but functional, a sleeping space, and a full bath.  It made sense of course, given Catherine was here most of the time.  

They arrived back in the early evening, a church bell striking seven as they fell into a routine on turning lights on, shifting easels and wrapped canvases and notebooks.  Catherine swiped her supplies off the table in swift movements, stacking palettes and brushes and varnish bottles haphazardly near the far wall and carefully pulling the easel in the same direction, away from the only large table in the space.  

She threw a heavy bundle of fabric at Sophia.  “Set the table, would you?  I’m going to see if Alex needs help, he can never get this recipe right…”

“What are you…?”  Sophia’s blue eyes fell from the burgundy fabric to Catherine, only to find Catherine had disappeared around a corner.  

She sighed and shook out the tablecloth, draping it over the surface and smoothing out wrinkles, shifting it so it covered the table properly.  What was she even doing?  She should have left, should have made an excuse and left the two of them halfway through the walk back.  She couldn’t pinpoint whether she didn’t want to be here or if she felt as though being here was getting in too deep.  Deeper than she wanted to be, felt comfortable being.

She was given a stack of plates and utensils and napkins when she’d neared the kitchen and shooed away for another forty minutes.  So she sat and went through her notifications, checked emails, answered texts.  She half-expected something from Vincent but she had nothing.  Nothing for…almost two days now.  It wasn’t entirely unlike him, not with project deadlines and his travel schedule.  Usually he asked about meeting details when he knew she was out.

Why was part of her bothered by that, by his silence?

Strange.  

Barely a half hour later, two bottles of wine and several plates of food littered the table.  Catherine had first brought out mezze, small plates of salad and appetizers and bread, and explained each dish to Sophia.  Maqluba, a casserole of rice, meat, and vegetables came after and the American hesitated, recognizing she’d filled up on everything else too soon.  She’d never had Jordanian food before and now understood why the older woman had insisted on being in the kitchen.

They laughed at Sophia for not knowing to pace herself, Catherine remarking that it was habit for her to insist on more food than not enough.  That for her, food was a sign of generosity and hospitality, and one of the few ways she knew to make up for their initial meeting.  Sophia had done more than she’d expected and this was her thank you.

Much later, and after several glasses of wine, Sophia’s mind was otherwise occupied by the questions she previously had for Vasiley.  

“If this whole scheme is a…communications channel for those in this…order…then it’s a localized threat, right?  Like…someone in Paris attacking Paris, not all of France?”  

She shouldn’t have had that last glass, it was catching up to her, making her thoughts slower than she wanted them to be.  Her lips felt slow and her tongue heavy in her mouth.  

Vasiley nodded, finishing off his glass and setting it down gently, fingers rolling the glass stem rather than letting it go.

“Any idea of who you’re warning everyone about? Or what?”

Vasiley blinked, pursed his lips, and then let out a out a soft breath from his nose.

“It’s likely a victim’s family member, someone who lost their loved one suddenly.  Not of a large accident but…something smaller,” he said.  “Something more…intimate.”

“Like an assassination attempt being stopped.  Small-scale attack.  An act of revenge,” Catherine amended.  “Something  _personal_.  Makes them hate the city.”

“But there’s a  _long, long_  list of candidates for that,” Vasiley muttered.

“Not when you consider how few of you  _have_ families or loved ones, Alex.  Eliminates a lot of people.”

Sophia narrowed her eyes, her tongue twisting in her mouth as she spoke.  “Are you saying you don’t even know  _who_ or  _what_ you’re specifically warning of?”

“The only threat that would ever spur our involvement is the destruction of Paris through ancient means.  Things that fly below the government radar.  Like the workings of a floodgate system.”

Yes, she’d definitely had too much to drink.  She would have noticed that connection almost instantly otherwise.

“Or someone within our own ranks doing something stupid.  We have people in government, in intelligence, in every industry imaginable.”

“You’re too fragmented for your own damn good,” Catherine sat back in her seat.  “Fragments other things in the process.  Not everyone can…compartmentalize.”

At some point, the conversation shifted to Sophia’s trip to New York, to other things.  As if any topic would suffice as long as it never broached the subject of secret orders or ancient Parisian floodgates.  The conversation shifted to projects, to work, and as Vasiley came back with a pot of coffee and a tray of mismatched mugs, he dived right in, face lit with excitement.

“A colleague of mine is following a lead related to Héloïse.  It’s long speculated that her writings have been incomplete for centuries.  If his team is correct, this will…”  he shook his head and shrugged, unable to find proper words.  “It’ll take a few months to be  _certain_ of location, and then to confirm the artifact is genuine,  but I’d say by this time next year, they’ll break their news officially and send it to auction.”

“That’s the…”  Sophia trailed off, the memory on the edge of her tongue.  Vincent had mentioned Héloïse in her first weeks in Paris, regaling her with the tale of her and Pierre Abélard, mentioning their remains were speculated to be buried at Père Lachaise Cemetery.  That their love story was tragic but not without its wild passion, without grey areas of uncertainty and secrecy.  His retelling had been one of the first times she’d seen excitement cross his features, his voice following a cadence that only came with a well-known and well-loved story being told from memory.  “She was a nun, right?  12th century scholar?”

“She’s known for radical feminist philosophies, even by modern standards.  Marriage as prostitution, especially when money and not love was involved, among other things.”

Silence fell between the three of them as the effects of the wine wore off.  They cleaned up, checked their plans for the following weeks, and parted sometime before midnight.  Sophia was left feeling as she did during her stay at the chateau, that for the first time in a while, she felt as though she was part of something, of a group.  That she did, in fact, belong in Paris.

* * *

The door was jammed.  Again.

_Why does this door never work properly?_   Sophia thought bitterly, adjusting her stance and turning the knob, pushing slightly on the door.  

Summer heat brought humidity, which caused old doors to swell and not fit their frames.  With a little more force, Sophia managed to push it open, stumbling through the entryway slightly.

Heat also brought city smells.  Strong and awful.  Something left out for only a few hours, especially in a place with no air conditioning could become putrid and nasty in no time.  Sophia gagged slightly, a sickly sweet, coppery smell lingering in the attic.

Had Catherine left something out and forgotten to put away?

“Catherine?” She called, not immediately seeing or hearing the woman.  She usually reacted when the door opened, was usually…working.

Sophia heard a wet groan from the middle of the room and gagged again when she saw Catherine.  Alive.  But only just.

Catherine was propped up against a bunch of small boxes, the white sheet covering them stained red and dark brown beneath her.  Her shirt and pants were splattered with blood, and the corners of the woman’s mouth were caked with the liquid.  She was ashen and her eyes were unable to focus for long, falling on Sophia and then elsewhere every few seconds.

Pushing away her nerves, Sophia pressed two fingers underneath Catherine’s ear, her hands trembling as she felt a weak pulse.  Her mind raced, knowing calling emergency services would mean this place would be a crime scene and Sophia a suspect.  Catherine DeValois was officially dead, as far as records were concerned.  To have her sent to a hospital would result in a nightmare.  And even then, she might never make it.

But to do  _nothing_ …

The two women looked at each other.  Catherine barely had the strength to keep her head up.  

There wasn’t time.

Sophia called Vasiley, her fingers missing the contact she wanted several times as she shook violently.  

This was wrong.  This shouldn’t have happened.   _Why_ had this happened?

_Pick up, pick up, pick up!  Please!_   

Sophia knelt and took Catherine’s pulse again as she choked out a sentence to Vasiley, that he needed to get over here, that everything was not, in fact, okay.  He asked her to slow down and speak slower but Sophia snapped at him that there wasn’t time for that.  There was a pause and then he said he would be over within fifteen minutes, seeming to understand there was no way to convey the situation over the phone.  That to say it would mean giving it legitimacy.  

She tucked her phone away and moved a piece of hair, caked with blood, away from Catherine’s face.  

“Sophia,” her voice was wet, so wet, and garbled, so unlike  _Catherine_.  The bleeding woman grasped the younger’s forearm and shoulder with more strength than Sophia expected from someone dying.  She could feel blood soaking through her shirt, staining her skin.  In a hoarse whispered, Catherine managed, “In the desk in the bedroom.  Two notes.”

Her brown eyes darted about the room, as if searching for something.  Someone.

“For who?  Catherine, what happened?”

Panic rose in her chest.  No.  No, couldn’t she hold on until Vasiley got here?  It wouldn’t be much longer.

“My husband.  And for you.  Deliver his when it is right to, when this…quiets down.  When Paris is safe.”

“ _What happened?_ ” Blue eyes searched brown for answers, for any indication of coherency, finding none.

Instead, Catherine dissolved into a coughing fit, her grip on Sophia tightening as the coughing wracked her body.  Blood splattered onto the American, warm and sticky.  Sophia swallowed hard, focusing on breathing.  Catherine’s hands went slack as the woman’s head lolled, her eyes rolling as she slid from Sophia and back towards the boxes at an awkward angle.

Unable to take it any longer, Sophia let out a choking wail, her stomach turning and refusing to handle the stress any longer.  She couldn’t bring herself to move immediately when her body was done ridding itself of her breakfast.  She stared at Catherine’s slack form, at the blood, at the two cups of coffee on the table near the painting supplies.  Tears, large and hot, welled up in her eyes and she blinked them out, not caring if her mascara was ruined.

She attempted to stand, her whole body shaking.  Vasiley would be here soon.  She should get the letters.  Get them before he arrived.

She heard footsteps near the door, and then a voice.  Female.  French mixed with…something else.  Sophia wasn’t sure, she was barely sure this whole thing was even real.  It couldn’t be.

“Well, well, what have we here?  Another interference?”

Vincent’s voice could, when he wanted it to, send shivers up spines.  Stop people in their tracks.

But the coldness he portrayed was nothing compared to the arctic freeze coming from the stranger.  Sophia barely turned around, catching dark hair and an amused expression before pain erupted in her head and all she saw was darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning: character dealing with grief and trauma.

Warmth.  Voices.  She remembered that much.  Hushed whispers, eyes being pried open and a light blinding her.  Her ankle throbbing, the joint set and wrapped, restricting her.

She remembered a washcloth wiping away blood, hands removing her bloody clothes and tucking her into a cloud.

Soft.  Her bed was never this soft.

This wasn’t her bed.

She kept seeing blood, blood dripping onto her hands, soaking through her clothes, her skin.  A wicked, deranged smile and that voice, over and over.  Sometimes it was just Catherine’s corpse, staring blankly over her shoulder, warning her.

She slept fitfully.  There was screaming.  Oh God did she remember the  _screaming_.  Someone would always come in, calm her down, lull her back to sleep only for her to wake again in a cold sweat, crying.

It shouldn’t have happened this way.  But it did.

Catherine was dead and all she could remember was blood and whispers and a demented laugh.

Sophia blinked, taking in crown molding and designs of a basic, modern bedroom.  Clean lines, minimal clutter.  A small pile of folded clothes sat on the dresser.  Her phone on a charger beside the bed.  Her work bag by the door.  She’d seen the room before in her moments of consciousness but never actually looked, never considered where she was.  Definitely not a hospital.

Sophia noticed the envelopes by her phone, placed there at some point and left untouched. Both of them bore the flourish of Catherine’s handwriting and were still sealed.

There was a small piece of paper tucked between the letters and her phone, a note from Vincent; Alexandre had dropped them off for her.  Odd. Catherine must have told him about them prior to…

A pang ran through her gut and she willed herself not to cry out again.  Her throat hurt from crying, from screaming.  Reality crashing in on her again as she recalled Catherine’s last moment, the smell of blood…her inability to do anything.

There was no going back now.

She sat up and skimmed the one addressed to her.  It was a profile, an analysis of the kind of person Catherine thought would be plotting against the city.  She mentioned she knew of the group Alexandre mentioned through her husband, a fellow member, and that the group often gained its share of enemies.  That despite the city being the target, it felt…personal.  A vendetta against all of Paris.

What had the city ever done to one person to deserve so much hate and want for destruction?

Catherine had speculated on friends and family members of those who had died under unpublished circumstances, perhaps in the line of duty.  A topic she would discuss with Vasiley in more detail.  If he would let her, of course.

The most important part, however, was after the profile, after the slight psychological analysis; a plan for moving forward.  Catherine had considered things without her, either because she planned to leave or because she knew how this would end.  Without Catherine, Sophia and Alexandre would need an artist, at the very least.  A historian, as well, who could work with the code they had established for the paintings, an innate understanding of Paris and its history, its secrets.  People they could attach to Vasiley’s other members discreetly.  Involve more people.  

With only two of them, it wouldn’t take much to wipe out the work they’d done so far.  

In closing, Catherine apologized. For her initial mistreatment and suspicion.  That she had been mistaken in Sophia’s abilities and usefulness.  Without her, they wouldn’t have gotten the same symbolic messages across, her paintings of choice perfect for their mission.  And as a person, she only wished to be able to spend more time with her.

_You remind me of my daughter, in some ways, or what I imagine she would be like by now.  And I can only hope that when all this is over, we can continue this…friendship._

Sophia couldn’t bring herself to read more, her vision clouded by tears.  Catherine hadn’t been one for praising her, or anyone, now that she considered it.  Serious.  Stern.  Aware of her surroundings, of those around her.  She barely knew the woman and now she never would.  Not properly.

She wanted to heave at the thought of having to look Catherine’s husband in the eye, knowing her final moments, and give him a letter from his departed wife that he thought was dead several years ago.  

_Stop.  Stop getting ahead of yourself.  Only when this is done will that happen.  This…whatever work this is…comes first._   Sophia thought, slowing her breathing to calm herself down.  

She got out of bed and dressed with slight difficulty.  Her ankle was a bother but she was thankful for the weather giving some wardrobe flexibility.  Shorts and a blouse and sweater, which she discovered was a necessity after being out of the covers long enough.  It was chilly, the hum of the AC gently breaking the silence.

A note fell to the floor as she dressed, tumbling out of the folded blouse and onto the floor.  Handwritten. Similar to the one she’d had when she’d first met…

_Come to the kitchen when you’re ready,_  was all it said.

Sophia turned the card over and found nothing else.  Just the order.  She opened the bedroom door and found Esteban curled up, watching her door from the other side of the hall.  Big brown eyes looked at her curiously, his curled tail hesitantly wagging, unsure if she was okay.  She knelt awkwardly and the dog rose to sniff her hand and then licked her fingers.

Fingers once covered in blood.

She suppressed that thought and gave the dog a loving pet, leaning into to hug him.  He licked her ear and she laughed gently.  He whined when she let go of him and trotted off down the hall; he turned and waited for her to follow.

_Such a…clever dog.  I’m at Vincent’s, then…_

Sophia followed Esteban, the dog pausing whenever she needed to catch up to him.  Her ankle made walking difficult but not impossible.  

She went down a long hall, carpet soft underneath her feet, the space opening up into an open concept living and dining room with a sunken sitting area next to the floor to ceiling windows.  It was evening, the cityscape sparkling through the raindrops as the water patterned the glass gently.  To her right was a modern staircase of dark wood and glass, the entryway beyond it.  Most of the wooden furniture was dark, closer to espresso in color, simple but not without ornamentation, much like Vincent’s office desk or his bookshelves.  Sophia looked up and found a balcony lining the space upstairs, bookshelves lining the walls, a sitting space tucked away in a far corner.

“Oh, Miss Cousland, you’re awake!”

Her head snapped back when she heard Eugene’s voice.  The red-haired man was wearing an apron and holding a wooden spoon covered in some kind of sauce.

Now that she thought about it, it smelled  _amazing_.  Her stomach growled at the trigger, a pang of hunger running through her.

“What, um…”  She ran her nail over the fold in Catherine’s letter, careful not to rip the paper, before folding it further and tucking it away in her pocket.

“You shouldn’t be walking around yet, not without crutches for a few days.  Sit down,” Eugene pointed to the dining table across the room, “I’ll bring you something to eat shortly.”

He disappeared back into what she assumed was the kitchen and she hobbled over to the table and picked a chair.  From her vantage point, she could see into the kitchen. Granite, stainless steel, cherrywood.  Homey but modern.  A little more classical.

A little more Vincent.

“What happened, Eugene?” She asked, finding her voice again.

“I’m not the person to ask.  All I know is you’ve been in and out of consciousness for a few days.  Three, I believe.”

He stiffened at her question and she knew his tone well enough by now to know when to let something go.  The valet would say no more on the matter, even if she pressed him further.

He placed a meal and a glass of water in front of her and only warned her to eat slowly.

Part of her felt as though he was being careful not to upset her.  As if she was broken, or close to it.  She ate in silence, staring at the painting on the wall across from her until she could no longer bear it and she longed for her phone, or a book, or a magazine.  Anything to distract her mind.

Vincent returned an hour or so later muttering under his breath about the weather.  Sophia had taken a seat on one of the steps into the sitting area, a hot mug between her hands.  She read Catherine’s letter again, dissected it, considered the advice buried within it.  It helped a little.  The paper now laid beside her, face up, staring back at her as she, in turn, stared out at the rainy city.  It wasn’t productive but it did something to ease the heaviness in her chest.  She didn’t want to return to bed but couldn’t stand the idea of working.  

Sophia caught his reflection in the glass; he, too, seemed to hesitate, as if he didn’t know where to begin.

That wasn’t like him.  He was always sure, confident, never having to second guess.

She watched him turn towards the kitchen without saying anything to her; she heard a drawer open and close, the clinking of glassware, and water from the still-hot kettle being poured.  

He joined her, sitting on the stairs with her rather than on one of the couches or in the armchair that appeared to be Esteban’s favorite; the pug was nestled into a chair that was a little more worn than the other pieces.  Vincent placed his own mug carefully beside him and put an empty crystal glass at his feet before he opened a small silver box and plucked a cigarette from it.  He silently holding it out to her.  She shook her head but frowned slightly, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he lit the cigarette with familiar ease.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Sophia said, taking a sip of her tea as the smell of tobacco lingered.

“I don’t.  Haven’t in thirteen years,” she turned towards him to watch him, his green eyes staring at the smoking thing between his thumb and forefinger as if it were foreign to him despite the familiarity.  “Remnants of an old habit.”

There was more to that thought, she knew, but it was unlikely he was going to share it with her.  At least…not immediately.

His eyes fell to the paper beside her and she wordlessly took it and held it out for him to read.  He let the cigarette smoke curl and fill the air, tapping ashes into the glass every so often.  The thing didn’t touch his lips for the longest time, remaining trapped between his fingers as his eyes scanned the letter.

If he thought anything of Catherine’s personal remarks, he said nothing.  He folded the letter and gave it back to her, satisfied.  She tucked it away before looking at him again.

“What happened?” She asked more resolutely, more firmly, than she did with Eugene.

She wanted answers. She deserved them.

_I already saw someone die.  If you wanted to protect me, you failed, so why bother tip-toeing around it?_  She thought bitterly.

“Vasiley found you passed out and called me when he realized you had a pulse and that the blood wasn’t yours,” he took a drag of the cigarette before he decided he didn’t like it.  Vincent snuffed it out in the glass and put it aside.  “I wrapped you in a blanket and brought you here so he could…examine the scene and honor Catherine as she had asked to be.  He said if you weren’t gone by the time others got there, you would be killed.”

“Comforting.  They’ll let him work with me but if I see them, I’m dead.”

He ignored her biting sarcasm and continued.

“The rest is shock and trauma.  Your ankle is sprained, it seemed to have gotten caught on something when you fell after being hit. I called a doctor; your ankle was set, no concussion. Your clothes had to be burned, unfortunately.”

Damn.  She liked that outfit.

And damn him too.  He was glossing over details.  Unlike him.  He always preferred long drawn out stories, with flourishes and emotional nuances.

Did he, Vincent Karm, feel responsible for what happened, for what she went through?

Impossible.  The man was known to be soulless.  

“The doctor gave you a sedative the first night you woke up but it didn’t seem to help.  It made your second time worse, actually,” he murmured.  “Vasiley stayed until he couldn’t bear it any longer.  He blames himself for her death.  Hearing you scream drove that point home for him every time.”

She vaguely recalled Alexandre being in the room with her, talking to her, calming her down, blonde hair bright against the lamplight.  But there had been a woman too, perhaps the doctor, sometimes Eugene.  Sometimes Vincent.  It was all a blur.

There was something causing a frown to tug at his lips but he chose to say nothing.

“I should have looked around before checking on her,” Sophia whispered.  “She was alive when I got there.”

The pitter-patter of rain filled the silence between them.  

“Don’t blame yourself for the actions of another, Ms. Cousland.  It would have happened anyway. A different time, a different place, but it would have happened all the same.”

She looked down at the now-empty mug.  He was right. She  _knew_ he was right.  But that didn’t ease the guilt swallowing her whole, chewing on her psyche like a piece of gum.  The idea that perhaps if she had left earlier or had called Alexandre sooner, maybe she’d be alive.  She knew it wasn’t true.  

Any earlier and she might have been killed herself.

Sophia turned her head to look at him again, watch him.  She could make out faint rings under his eyes, barely there, but present nonetheless.  His signet ring was on his left thumb, where it only sat when he was annoyed or too lost in thought to realize he’d moved it; he would see it in most instances that way, as if it were a reminder of something.  It bore a college’s seal, but she never asked which school.

“I understand the loss of control.  That if…things had been different, maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all,” Vincent said.  

He looked pensive, melancholy even, as he watched the rain and the distorted view of the city.  He was rarely lost in thought around other people, always alert, always watching for weaknesses to exploit.  Vincent’s lips tightened after he parted them, his thoughts caught before they could be spoken aloud.

“Perhaps one day, I’ll tell that story.  But that day is not today.”

He rose in a single fluid movement and crossed the space to the window, standing with his hands behind his back. Proud. Arrogant, even. A king looking over his lands.  Whatever traces of empathy she had seen from him were gone, replaced with the man she recognized well.  He looked over his shoulder and gestured for her to come and stand next to him.

Deja vu punched her gut and suddenly she was transported back to the auction house, to New York, to the night everything changed.  She stood up and walked over to him.

“Catherine’s death means this is more serious than I expected it to be, at least this quickly,” Vincent said.  “Someone got too close, if that letter is indicative of anything.”

Sophia remained silent, waiting for him to continue.  

“Your attacker knows your face, could have killed you, and didn’t.  Could have killed Catherine instantly but chose poison, something slow enough to be agonizing and smart enough to be nearly untraceable—”

“Poison?”  Sophia interjected.  

There had been so much blood she had been sure Catherine had been stabbed.  Her mind went back to the brief moment between the woman’s passing and her assailant whacking her over the head, to the worktable with two mugs…

Of course.  Catherine  _knew_ her attacker then.  To some degree.  

Vincent frowned at her for interrupting his thought and cleared his throat pointedly before continuing.

“Yes.  So, they had Catherine’s trust, at least enough that she turned her back in order for it to be slipped into her drink.  They want to play.  Want those they kill to suffer.  Whoever this is, whether it’s one person or a whole group, there’s  _pain_ involved.  And when the time is right, that can be used against them.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vincent turn to face her.  Sophia turned her head slightly to look up at him without being rude but not enough that he was given her full attention.  

She didn’t  _care_  about her job, about her purpose, about her contract, not right now.  She wanted the ache in her chest to stop crushing everything inside of her, longed for dreams that weren’t filled with blood and darkness.  Wanted nothing more than to be left alone.  

She almost flinched when warm fingers found her cheek and she felt her head being turned for her, so she had no choice but to face him.  Sophia wondered how an onlooker would see them, if someone like Eugene would get the wrong idea.

Never in her life had Sophia seen green eyes as cold, as hard, as Vincent’s in that moment.  Trying a little too hard, perhaps, to keep up his own facade.  For a moment, she swore she saw a sliver of empathy, of understanding, cross his features; it disappeared before she could properly acknowledge it was there and the sharpness she was familiar with came into focus again.

“This changes nothing.  Emotions are valid, as is your loss, but they cannot rule over you.  Your goals are still the same: find out who or what this threat is; maintain and grow my art collection.  Is that clear, Ms. Cousland?”

_You trust me with the fate of the city but not with yourself.  Yet I’m expected to be able to trust you without question, blindly put myself in a position again and again despite knowing the danger it puts me in?_   She thought bitterly.   _Am I supposed to just_ move on  _and_ forget _about the person I knew?  About the potential she had?_

Sophia swallowed all of the words she wanted to spew at him.  They weren’t productive and would only result in an emotional outburst she wasn’t prepared to handle.  Not in front of him.

Her blues eyes held his, determined and on edge despite her exhaustion and the pressure in her chest.  

“Crystal.”

Vincent’s hand lingered on her cheek, warm, even hot, compared to the icy coolness of her skin.  His hands were soft, not having seen a day of manual labor for a long time, if at all.  Her cheek fit rather well against it, or so she felt.

_What…no, I’m not even entertaining that notion.  You don’t get to touch me unless I say so._

Sophia turned and moved her head away from his hand quickly, leaving the living room and returning to her bedroom.  She didn’t have the willpower to glare at him for touching her or the strength or sharpness of mind to throw back a verbal jab at him.  Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, as if it were made of lead. Her heart thrummed in her ears the entire way down the hall.

She refused to look back, lest she consider how such warm hands could belong to a man with such a cold heart.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where the crossing into Season 1 begins!

She blinked and the rest of the year flew by.  Or so it felt.  It crawled at first, and her mind was elsewhere; she looked over her shoulder too much, jumped at shadows.  When she had nothing to offer Vincent at the end of the month, he stared at her, assessed her distant expression before he handed her the name of a discrete doctor on his payroll.  

Therapy.  The idea scared her almost as much as Catherine’s death.  But she went.  Some days were worse than others but slowly she began to…feel things other than fear again.  See the fine line between cautiousness and paranoia. Process her guilt and grief.  It helped.  Ever so slowly, it helped.

Sophia only wished, selfishly, that Vincent had told her of his own grief. He knew so much about her that it didn’t seem fair for her to know almost nothing outside of public knowledge in return. Except for his taste in art.  The only thing he truly trusted her with was his collection and she would have to be satisfied with that.  Their meetings were short, almost terse at times, and it took everything in her not to ask  _why_.  Sometimes she asked herself that, why she slid her mask back on during the times he barely looked up at her, the one she wore when they met.  The one that kept her unattached.

She wasn’t a china doll; she’d recover from whatever pain she felt, she knew that.  She wasn’t entirely surprised she was realizing her attachments after her experience, something her doctor said was okay, but the agony that seemed to rear its head every time she even thought of the her employer…

_That_  was something she could never mention in therapy.  And it was for the best if she learned to ignore it and move on.  She’d analyzed  _why_  he left his hand lingering on her skin over and over until she could  _feel_  his hand on her. Why he spent hours giving her a tour of his home, why he even invited her at all.

Vincent Karm did nothing without reason but there was no reason for her to understand.

And so she pulled herself back.  The less people saw her thoughts written on her face, the better.  If she kept her distance, no one else could be hurt.  And she couldn’t hurt in return.

She did what she knew to do; what Vincent was paying her to.

Sophia tried her hand at academic writing again, at burying her head in books and articles.  Her therapist recommended trying to find peace in the things she liked doing, find the passion she once held, especially before she came to Paris.  For now, her other work was at a bit of a standstill while Alexandre found a home for the paintings they currently had.  The stockpile gave them until January, he figured, which gave them time to find someone talented enough to replace Catherine.  

By them, it turned out he meant the larger group, the protectors he spoke of.  Of course.

They met every so often, still, mostly at either of each other’s homes. Safer. At least they hoped it was.  

By December, she had gotten back on track with her debt with Vincent and had a draft of an article ready to be looked at before sending it to review.  

“Would you sit?” Sophia snapped, looking up from her laptop at the man in her peripheral vision.  “You’re making me dizzy.”

Alexandre Vasiley glared at her in return as he looked up from the draft before his eyes fell on the paper again and he continued his pacing.  She shouldn’t have asked him to look at it.  Maybe she should have just sent it in for peer review and called it finished.

“You asked me to proofread. That’s what I am doing.”

“You can’t sit and read?”

“I process better if I pace.”

“Yeah, well, do it on the hardwood.  You’ll wear a hole in the area rug.”

She mentally winced at her own pettiness; his movement was distracting, like a fly circling a cafe table in the summer.  She’d meant for it to come out playful but there was too much of an edge to her voice for it to be interpreted as anything other than annoyed.

If he was angry or hurt by her tone, he didn’t show it and did as she asked, pacing up and down the hallway instead.

She was halfway through her list for Vincent when the draft was dropped with a thump on the coffee table.

“It’s missing something but I’m not sure what,” Alexandre said.  “I know someone who might though, she’d thoroughly enjoy debating this with you; she’ll argue every counterpoint.”

“If I wanted it torn apart  _now_ , I’d just send it to review,” Sophia kept her tone in check, sounding less annoyed than before.

She wanted an academic perspective, a professional perspective. That was why she had asked him to begin with.  Not some stranger who didn’t know her style, her thoughts. 

Opening herself up to anything  _new_  meant not feeling comfortable, feeling  _safe_.  

Silence grew between them before the curator sighed and ran a hand down his face.  Silence Catherine would have once filled with a quip about getting out of her own head once in a while.  

“Just…email me a copy of it.  I’m meeting with her later in the week and she could use the change of pace from her own research.  Are you free Thursday?”

“As far as I know.”

“Good.  National Gallery, eleven o’clock.”

He rose and wandered into the kitchen, pouring himself another glass of wine before picking up the draft again.  The silence was productive, reciprocal.  It reminded her of college, studying with groups of classmates whose only commonality was their desire to succeed.  

She tried to find peace in the small reminder of home, of simpler times and different people, of a time before Vincent Karm walked into her life.

* * *

Thursday came and Sophia found herself beside Vasiley and far from the collections of the National Gallery.  The hallway was quiet, humming only with the chatter from individuals behind closed doors.  The office space was far removed from the bustle of the Gallery and if she didn’t know better, she would have thought she wasn’t in a museum at all.

Alexandre hesitated before he knocked on the door with a nameplate bearing, _Sarah Zembe: Curator._

His brown eyes were harsh, “One thing, Cousland.  It’s easy to remember.  Don’t mention Karm.”

Sophia gave him an exasperated look.  “He’s a client, I wouldn’t do that anyway.”

“I mean it.  She won’t help you if you do.”

She understood the implied ‘don’t fuck this up’ lingering in his words and nodded in agreement.  Part of her found it so odd that Vincent Karm’s name alone closed just about as many door as it opened.  Warnings about working for him were one thing but it seemed as though actually working for him somehow meant walking on more eggshells than already necessary.  

“There’s history there,” Alexandre explained.  “Best to just…leave it be.”

Sophia nodded again and he knocked before opening the door, greeting the occupant like an old friend.  She let him introduce her to the curator as she tried to get a feel for Sarah’s personality.  

The dark skinned woman’s face lit up in surprise when Sophia mentioned she’d written something else the prior year.  “I remember that one, on Moreau, right?  You’re what, late twenties?  Rare for someone without a lot of clout in the industry or in teaching to be published in an academic journal.”

“Thirty, actually.  And at the time, I was a PA and assisted in sales in New York, I knew the right people.”  Sophia shrugged.

All of which was true.  She’d spent years working on a single artist and she still wondered why she’d been chosen.  Her credentials were fine but her research had taken so long due to her job, due to her lack of time to dedicate solely to research.

“I found the section on…” Sarah dived right in and it wasn’t until they were halfway through a section that Sophia saw how quick-tempered and dismissive of her ideas the other woman was.

However, she ended up with a new contact in her phone and a tentative meeting for coffee in coming weeks, when all was said and done.  If she focused on fleshing out one area, the paper had more potential, and Sarah gave her a list of authors to start with.

Sarah glared at her phone as it chimed, muttering under breath before she answered it with a quick, “What?  I’m in the middle of something.”

Mercurial, but undeniably quick to understand anything set in front of her.  The earlier mood lifted as she watched Sarah’s eyes go as wide as saucers in disbelief.  Sophia caught snippets of questions, a mention of Heloise…

_She’s the colleague Alexandre mentioned, then?_ Sophia mused.   _The one who supposedly found a lost letter from that nun…_

“Now, Alexandre Vasiley, I have questions for  _you_ ,” Sarah redirected her attention to the man who had all but been forgotten.  “And fantastic news as well.”

“You and Raphael finally decided on a date for the wedding?”  Alex quipped, turning his attention from the sculpture in the small office back to Sarah, earning him a powerful glare in return.

“Far better.  The provenance can be easily traced and the letter’s being sent for handwriting comparison.”

“So she wrote it, then?”  

“It’s beginning to truly look that way.”  

Sophia listened, her eyes darting between the pair every so often.  A lost letter, a warning disguised as a poem, possibly pointing to a danger to Paris.  

“Her other letters are very clear on their intent; this one…the poem is beautiful but it reads like nonsense compared to the rest of her stuff,” Sarah crossed her arms.  “So it’s a warning.  But we don’t know from before or after his death.  Raphael has his own thoughts, of course, not that he’s an expert really, but his knowledge of the city astounds even me.”

Sarah’s fingers went to the gold and diamond ring on her finger, toying with the piece of jewelry.

“It  _is_ addressed to Abelard, but that means nothing without ruling out other dates or individuals.”

_That_ could be interesting.  Granted, she’d only ever bought and sold art for Vincent, but it couldn’t hurt to mention this to him.

Perhaps when she knew more.  It would be a rare and valuable piece.  And she’d be shit at her job if she let this slip between her fingers.

* * *

Sophia smoothed her dress in an attempt to hide her fidgeting as the elevator slowly made its way to the top floor with TJ and one or two others they ran into on their way across the city.  She shifted the small black binder and gift in her arms, the tiny package housing a carefully considered gift; it was mostly out of obligation, a gift to a host, or so she kept telling herself.

More like a thank you for saving her life, or at least helping her put part of it back together.

She’d received a gift from Vincent-they all had-a few days prior.  A blue Hermès scarf with an abstract pattern and…if she wasn’t mistaken,  a leash.  Sophia didn’t understand. Maybe it was a morbid joke that they were all still tied to him, his Hounds, perhaps.  His humor was dark but this…was weird.

She’d tied the scarf around her neck as a last minute decision when she realized it went well with her dress and that she’d neglected to find a necklace to wear.  She’d placed the leash in her coat pocket in hopes of asking about it at some point.

She hated Christmas parties.  Holiday parties in general.  In New York, everyone was basically family, or so it felt.  Here…everyone was out for themselves.  The elevator alone hummed with an ambitious tension.

Eugene answered the door, passing a disdainful glance at one person in particular whose name she never caught.  As he took her coat and her binder, he dropped his voice. “Would you mind staying late to help clean up?  He wants to see you afterwards.”

“Of course,” she replied.  

The manservant walked off, the tiny wrapped box now tucked away to be placed with the binder on Vincent’s desk.  Or so she assumed.

She wasn’t the only one who brought a gift, but then again, her situation was…different.  So she kept telling herself.

The group she arrived with weren’t early guests but it was fairly busy by the time they came.  People milled about, faces unfamiliar to her, wine glasses in hand.  She’d only seen a fraction of the penthouse during her previous visit, she knew, and she briefly wondered just where others were wandering to and from.

She would find out after she did her social rounds.  Vincent’s visage was easy to find, one in the tallest of the room, his shoulders squared and sure as he spoke to another man who was enthralled by the conversation.  The power of natural charisma.  It was always strange, watching him, how he adapted to a conversation.  He was facing her direction, towards the entryway, likely to be able to converse and keep an eye on those coming in.

Sophia didn’t want to interrupt the conversation; she was in the middle of figuring out where she could get something to drink when Vincent’s gaze broke away from the man he was talking to and fell on her.  She nodded politely, feeling frozen on the spot, unable to look away from him.  He tilted his head up slightly, almost approvingly, and watched her for a moment before going back to the conversation at hand.  The entire moment lasted no longer than a few seconds but it felt like a glacier had moved in the time it took for her to navigate the room.

Eventually, she made her way down the hall, past the bedroom she had woken up in months ago, and followed a pair into another sitting room.  Floor to ceiling windows made up the outer walls, long sunlights cutting the ceiling every few feet.  The furniture was a little more classical, a contrast to the other room.  The view of the city was even better here.

She settled into natural conversations and felt the tension from the elevator earlier leave.  Many terrible things could be said for Vincent Karm, she knew well enough, but the guest lists for his parties nor the parties themselves weren’t among them.  

Yet again, she found herself not having as awful of a time she as expected to.

* * *

After the party dwindled down, she and Eugene made quick work of gathering stray dishes and glasses as Vincent saw the last of his guests out.  

It wasn’t long before Sophia stood in the doorway of the private office, the double doors off of the second sitting room she spent most of the evening in.  His personal office was similar to one she often found herself in, at least in layout, but the art was different.  More personal.  This space was not about demonstrating power so much as enjoying the abilities of the human mind and hand.  She caught a glimpse of the black binder on his desk but saw no signs of her gift.    
  
Ah, there you are,” he adjusted his hold of Esteban, the pug’s ears perking at the sight of another human.  “I take it you enjoyed yourself?”  
  
Sophia wasn’t sure if the question was genuine or a jab at her lack of socializing throughout the night.    
  
“Quite.  Although I would have thought you wouldn’t want such a crowd in your home.”  
  
“Easier than guests driving out of the city and it’s a far more…intimate setting than other options.”  
  
Her eyes were drawn downwards as a white mass approached her.  Another dog, larger than Esteban, stared back at her, its mass of fur hiding its true stature.  Pointed ears, white fluffy fur, and brown, watchful eyes.  Its curled tail twitched slightly as it stared at her.  
  
It nudged her hand with its snout after a staring contest.  
  
“Hi, sweetie,” Sophia murmured, running her fingers through the soft fur.  She looked back at Vincent.  “I thought you only had Esteban?”  
  
“I do.  Theo is for you.  American Eskimo dogs are protective and make for good watchdogs.  They’re also incredibly clever.  Almost to a fault.”  
  
She stared at Vincent in confusion, not sure if she had heard him correctly.  He was giving her a dog?  Just like that?  Under the assumption she wasn’t allergic or wasn’t the type to prefer cats, or that she simply didn’t have the time to care for another creature.    
  
That explains the leash, then.  
  
He put Esteban down, the pug trotting right over to Sophia to sniff the other dog before walking out of the office.  
  
“She needs exercise, she can’t be alone for long periods of time, but I thought a companion might…make certain aspects…less burdensome.”  
  
Tip-toeing around her progress.  But she wondered if it was for her benefit or his.  A dog with such a personality would be protective when the situation warranted it. She did, after all, live alone.    
  
“I…I don’t know what to say.  Thank you, Vincent.”  
  
“You’re welcome, Ms. Cousland.”  
  
Sophia knelt and continued to pet the dog, who seemed quite content to be pet, at least for now.  
  
“Her name is Theo?” She asked.  
  
“Short for Theodora.  Her previous owner was interested in Byzantine art, especially with the period during Justinian’s reign.  She passed a few weeks ago but the family didn’t know what to do with…” he gestured to Theodora, her brown eyes shining.  “I offered to take her instead.”  
  
Theodora reached out and flicked her tongue across Sophia’s nose.  
  
“There is the matter of your meeting with a certain…curator.”  Vincent’s tone turned icy and she caught something familiar flicker across his face.  
  
The same expression he wore when TJ failed to impress him.  
  
She hadn’t considered Vincent would hear about it.  Alexandre has warmed her they both had the common thread of an employer but not to mention it to Sarah in order to keep her talkative; for Vincent to bring it up…perhaps bad blood ran both ways?  
  
“You mean Sarah Zembe?” Sophia pulled her hands away from Theodora and stood up.  
  
“Precisely.  You discussed…what, exactly?”   
  
He had walked behind his desk but not to sit, perhaps to put a barrier between them.  He looked at her through narrowed eyes, assessing her every word.  
  
“I’ve been working on an unrelated article for a journal, Vasiley recommended talking to her. He was there for the entire meeting,” Sophia began.  “I made no mention of you.”  
  
“This article…”  
  
“Has nothing to do with my current work. In any capacity,” she said firmly.  “It’s more a continuation of my other piece.”

The suspicion in his eyes died down but the tension in his stance didn’t.  He seemed to consider the remnants of his brandy sitting in a crystal glass off to his right but made no attempt to reach for it.

“Sarah Zembe is a back-stabbing liar, Ms. Cousland.  She should be kept at arm’s length.” Vincent said solemnly.  “Especially considering her temper.  She and Laurent fit so perfectly together.”

The last comment was biting but Sophia couldn’t place whether it was jealousy or sarcasm.  Laurent….Raphael Laurent?  Sarah  _had_ mentioned a Raphael in passing…

Which would mean she was engaged to Vincent’s rival.  Interesting.

“She used to work for me, as my personal assistant. Until she snapped one day and made a passing comment to a reporter about a personal matter of mine.  Her fiancé was none too thrilled that she worked for me, either, and I’m sure you can imagine what accusations were slung around behind closed doors.  So she made her choice and broke her non-disclosure agreement in the process.”

“I’m sorry,” Sophia said after a beat, her heart a little heavier.  

It seemed as though Vincent was usually the one who did the back-stabbing. Or forced others to do it to prove themselves to him. TJ mentioned such things in passing but Vincent had yet to give her such an ultimatum.

Unless it would be to eventually betray Alex.  Her mind went back to his offer. To bring those causing this situation to him.  Alexandre knew she worked for Vincent; perhaps that clause now meant it would be whoever was actually threatening Paris.

Regardless, to be trusted with the warning felt…important.  Or maybe that was what he was banking on, toying with her.

Nothing was ever clear anymore.

The edge was gone from his once-stern tone as he continued.

“Don’t be. Alex is correct in directing you to her, but her wrath is terrible.  If she finds out you work for me, she won’t hesitate in barring other paths for you outside of private consulting.”

Sophia shrugged, as though trying to convince herself that wasn’t a big deal.  She didn’t want academia but to work for an institution would be…something she’d dreamed of for years, since before she graduated college.

But working for Vincent…being unencumbered by red tape…there were perks to that too.  Maybe more than she cared to admit.

“Maybe I like private consulting.”

“Your writing suggests otherwise.”

“My writing is possible  _because_  of my private consulting and working outside of academia in general.  I only work for you.”

“I’m just as demanding as a museum.”

“Moreso.  But less rules.  Which leaves room for other things.”

Theodora bumped her head against Sophia’s hand again, missing the attention.

Neither of them spoke, but Vincent raised an eyebrow at her, almost daring her to explain herself.  If she didn’t know better, she have sworn a brief smile crossed his lips too.  When she talked to him, sometimes it felt as though a fog lifted from her mind in recent weeks, her mind a little sharper when it remembered to be.  

Her heart clenched and she reminded herself of her role.  She was a means to an end.  She might have more freedom, but he was paying her to do a job.  That was it.  She’d get over her attachment soon enough.  He played people, knew what to say and how to get the right response.  

She was a fool to assume anything beyond getting her back to being useful to him was genuine.

“She mentioned a letter,” Sophia looked down at the dog again, blue eyes meeting brown shining ones.  “An old letter, thought to be written by Heloise.”  

_That_ piqued Vincent’s interest and seemed to distract him from the topic of their conversation.  She glanced at him to find his eyes wide.

“ _The_ Heloise?  All of her letters have been published or found.”

“It’s a warning, supposedly, for Abelard.  Coded.  She didn’t mention anything more; she couldn’t, obviously.  It’ll be on auction in the spring after it goes through carbon dating and other tests.  But it’s looking…genuine.  The provenance is clean.”

Vincent plucked the glass of brandy from his desk, holding it loosely between his fingers.  He looked down at it before finishing it, considering her words.

He  _wanted_ that letter.  She would recognize that expression on his face anywhere, tights lips and straight shoulders as he stared at something without seeing what he was looking at.  She could  _see_ him thinking,  _wondering_  what such a letter could possibly contain.  If it was real.

“I want a picture of that letter,” Vincent fixed his eyes on hers and for the first time in the year she’d spent in his employment, she saw what others mentioned in passing.  The Vincent Karm that was like a dog chasing a car, desire dancing in his eyes as his mind focused on possibilities, on ideas.  “Details.  _Anything_.  And I want an invitation to that auction.”


	9. Chapter 9

His wish was granted.  In a few months’ time, when winter finally thawed, she received an email that she was invited to the spring auction; a few moments later, she got a text from Vincent containing a screenshot of his own email.  

They would go separately; Sarah would be attending and had pulled strings for her to get an invitation to begin with.  Vincent wanted the extra chance at the cryptic poem.

Theodora’s head perked up from her bed, the white dog watching her as she finished getting ready.  She was incredibly well-trained and Sophia would occasionally hear her soft steps when she went to go listen at the front door.  When she couldn’t sleep, she often found a cold nose pressed against her hand before she was joined by her canine.  

Who was eagerly awaiting their morning out.  A late breakfast with Sarah and then a stroll with Esteban.  

She’d have two dogs for the rest of the day.  Eugene had mumbled something about keeping the pug away from the Roomba at the penthouse but having other tasks to get to.  Which meant a day of working on her next task: Vincent’s exhibit at Orsay.  

Theo whined softly as Sophia passed her again on her way to get to her closet.

“Yes, yes, we’ll leave in a few minutes,” she said, Theodora’s tail thumping against her bed in excitement.

She gathered her things, along with snacks and other things for the large dog, and the two of them set out on their day.

* * *

When Sophia arrived at the cafe, she spotted Sarah at the outdoor terrace, conversing with an animated auburn haired man.  His back was to her but she ventured he was around Vincent’s height, although he held himself quite differently.

Theo pulled her leash slightly in excitement when they got closer, yielding when Sophia said her name.  She was glad the dog had taken well to Sarah; the other woman was already scared of cats, she didn’t want to ruin her fondness of dogs.

Sophia could make out snippets of a hushed conversation, a mention of Heloise.

“This…it might lead to something  _incredible_ , something that…in wrong hands…you  _know_ he’ll want it.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Raph.  It’s likely whatever she does point to is already gone.  It’s been centuries.” Sarah reached out a comforting hand that he initially took but let fall quickly, as if either embarrassed or not in the mood to be comforted.

 _So she’s discussed the letter with other people…interesting…is she trying to garner buyers before everything is finalized?  She works at a museum, what the hell is she doing trying to hype up…_  Her thoughts raced as she kept her mask firmly in place.  

Sophia watched out of the corner of her eye as she approached the waiter and gestured to Sarah, mentioning she was meeting someone.  He eyed the dog but said nothing and led her to the table.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, I can come back,” Sophia offered after catching Sarah’s gaze.

The curator looked back at the man, who turned around, startled.  He turned his attention back to Sarah.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were meeting anyone,” he shifted, stiffly bending down to kiss the other woman’s cheek.  He turned and said, “Nice to meet you,” to Sophia before passing her to leave the terrace.

And in a flash, he was gone, walking briskly down the street.

Sophia narrowed her eyes.   _That_ was Raphael Laurent?  Really?  

“He’s like that with everyone,” Sarah said, drawing the American’s attention back to the table.  “He’s strange but I love him all the same.  His head’s just in the clouds.”

“I’m not offended, I have clients just like him.”

 _Or I_ did  _before I came here.  Vincent’s…always hyper- aware of his surroundings…_

“A lot of collectors are like that.  My previous employer…not so much, although he tended to border on obsessive when he fixated on what he wanted.”

 _Oh, do I know that well enough_.

The topic of conversation shifted away from work but Sophia couldn’t quite focus either.  She fed Theo a treat from her bag but felt as though Sarah’s words weren’t quite reaching her, as though she was in a fog.  She found herself fixated on the possibility of Sarah having already lined up potential buyers, something that would screw her over immensely.  

Vincent could easily buy the letter without her but she was supposed to do what she could to earn Sarah’s trust.  That was her job.

As he so kindly reminded her on the phone last night, after hearing of her last-minute plans with Sarah.

They were still working on their coffee when Sophia finally found it in herself to ask about the auction, about the projections for the sale.

“There’s a lot of history collectors poking around, as well as those who just buy things to keep them,” Sarah began.  “A lot of people are curious about what Heloise could have had to say, given her radical philosophies.  The contents haven’t been released to the public and won’t be unless the buyer chooses to.”

“Ensures only the serious come, that makes sense,” Sophia replied.  “It  _is_ a breakthrough though, that  _has_ to be exciting.”

“I handle paintings and sculptures of geniuses every day but it feels  _damn_ good to have found something to put my name out there.  To be taken seriously.”

Sarah’s mood was quick to change; she seemed to border on anger.  

“I hate that,” Sarah spat.  “How much harder I have to work.  But I know it’s worth it when something like this happens.  Where I actually  _do_ something and it makes a difference.”

Sophia didn’t react, knowing too well what the other woman meant.  Both in terms of gender and in the context of working for a single person.  In the context of working for Vincent Karm.

When she was calmer, she continued.  “Raphael is hoping to earn it, he’s one of the few attending who will be able to outbid almost anyone else there,” Sarah topped off her cup before adding a dash of milk.  “He’s hoping to protect it from circling vultures and he’s incredibly dedicated to the history of the city.”

 _She_ must  _know Vincent was added to the guest list._   Sophia mused.   _That’s not something easily kept secret._

“Well then, I wish him luck.  He seemed really animated about it earlier.”

Sarah laughed.  “He’s easily excitable over anything history related.”

They finished and parted ways after Sophia covered the bill, brushing off Sarah’s insistence on paying.  

Theo bounded far ahead of her as they went to meet Eugene, eager for her walk.

* * *

Sophia muttered under her breath as the Photoshop file suddenly froze, her mouse icon spinning.

“No, c’mon,” she hissed.  “Not now.”

She’d saved the file, thankfully, not long ago, but it still meant a problem, still meant she’d have to re-do parts of the image.

Mock-ups for Vincent’s exhibit.  She scaled everything accordingly to measurements from Orsay and had photos of the walls, blank, to work with.  But she was meeting him soon and she wanted this  _done._

At the foot of the desk, Theodora was asleep, having exhausted herself.  Esteban was curled up next to her, a tan blur next to his stark-white companion.

Vincent had insisted on giving her a space on the floor of his company’s office, so she had separate work space.  To keep an eye on her.  Which was easier when she was closer to his security services than it was at her apartment.  Catherine was alone when she was attacked and died in her studio work space.  He wasn’t risking that happening again.

Which meant she was in a glass bubble, of sorts, now. Literally and metaphorically.  The walls on each side were drywall, covered in shelving and cabinets, but the entrance and the windows behind her made the space feel like a zoo habitat for passerby glances.

Occasionally she heard whispered questions.  She’d been seen in and out of Karm International before, seen coming and going from his private office and his public one, but now she was subject to more scrutiny.  And she hated it.  

Sophia already had to watch her back as it was.

She growled and force-quit Photoshop, walking away from the computer to make a cup of coffee at the small machine nearby.  By the time she’d made her cup, her computer was more willing to cooperate and she was able to re-work the photo.

Sophia printed out the images when she was finished, glossy images drying on her desk as she wondered what her next move with Alexandre would be.  

An artist.  And a historian.  Not that Alex wasn’t good, but he couldn’t balance everything history-related forever.  Maybe the auction would give her a chance to scout out someone new.  Lots of historians were attending.  

She was broken out of her thoughts by knuckles on the dark wood of the door.  Vincent strioe through quietly, eyes on the dog bed before he met her gaze.

“They played for a good hour, I carried Esteban inside and he fell right to sleep when I put him down,” she explained.

“He doesn’t like sharing space.”  Vincent observed.

“Hog your bed, does he?”

“If my Princeling had his way, I’d be sleeping on the couch.”

She smiled, thinking of Vincent Karm stuck on one of his sofas, too tall to fit lengthwise, despite the guest bedroom he had.  And then she thought about other things involving Vincent and and a bed and sleep (and maybe some without sleeping), and averted her eyes.  

 _Don’t. Even. Go. There._ She thought viciously.   _Where the hell did that even_ come  _from?_

She needed a break.  Or sleep.  Preferably both.  Sleep came easier now than it used to but with the development of this poem, she felt as though she had to work harder to remain relevant as well as simply keep up with Vincent at all.

Acknowledging her attachment to people and trying to figure out the reasoning behind a gesture was one thing.   _That_  thought was another and it was territory she couldn’t allow herself to delve into.  Even indulging in it meant distraction from her actual work, meant reading into things too far and entertaining the notion that he cared for anyone other than himself.  She sipped her coffee and pushed all thoughts except for those about the exhibition out of her head.  

_Vincent Karm cares for no one. Remember that._

But how odd for him to be approachable, offering up quips as though he hadn’t severely berated her the previous evening.  Not that she expected him to stay mad or anything. Not everything was so damn personal.

He approached the desk and picked up one of the photos.  Face unreadable, he arranged them to reflect where the walls would be in position to one another as to create a rough idea of the space.

She’d learned that he preferred physicality when it came to thinking over projects.  He didn’t need it but preferred it; not everyone was able to keep up with his train of thought and it was just… _easier_.  Like having a translator.

“They’ll play off of each other nicely,” he pointed to one piece and then its matching partner across the space.  “It forces the viewer to turn around, consider their space, caught between the inevitable.”

The entire show was just works of symbols and motifs,  _vanitas_ paintings, demonstrating the futility of pleasure, the transience of life, the certainty of death.  Symbols of wealth and death tangled together as a reminder that nothing in life lasts forever, that nothing is certain.  

She kind of wished he had the Damien Hurst sculpture, the diamond encrusted skull; the contrast would have been striking and drawn in more people just on name recognition alone.  But then he would be overshadowed and the one thing Vincent would never want would be to be overshadowed.  

_Maybe he’s having an early mid-life crisis.  Would explain the theme._

“Move these.  I don’t like the clashing of color among them,” Vincent gestures with a finger to a collection of three paintings, grouped by artist rather than theme.  His tone was final but not harsh or criticizing, as it has been in December. “They don’t make sense together.”

She made a note on the list of pieces she was including in the show.

He pointed to the pieces to pair them with, where he could see them working better.

“I want the layout to reflect the overall theme, that no matter how much we try to fight it, pretend it isn’t there, death is always the end.”

Why did he sound so…hollow when he said that?

“Maybe two pieces flanking the entrance with darker tones?  Things you’d only see by the time you were ready to leave?”  Sophia suggested.

He hummed and picked up the list of paintings, eyes scanning it.  “Numbers 25 and 27 would be good choices.”

Struck with an idea, Sophia placed her cup down rather hard and her fingers worked on autopilot across her keyboard.  She pulled up the files on her computer and quickly manipulated the photos.  She was about to turn her laptop towards him only to notice he had walked around the desk to stand next to her.  

Sophia felt his eyes on her and she sat back to show the concept with the pieces he mentioned.

“ _Parfait.”_  Vincent’s word was barely above a whisper, and she would have missed it had it been in English.  “Not that I expected anything less,” he amended.  “What about the others?”

Sophia reworked the photo he pointed out earlier and rearranged everything in all but a few minutes.  She was relieved when he turned his back to her to look out the window, waiting as she re-sized photos.  

“Did Sarah say anything of note?” He asked, tone light, casual.  

She glanced over her shoulder to find him watching Paris, hands in his pockets, shoulders back.  Sophia turned back to her screen and finished.

“Raphael Laurent is heavily invested.  I overheard him say something about the letter hinting at an old relic or something.  He was worked up about it when I arrived.”

She tried to keep her tone even.  Laurent was a topic thinner than weak ice in November.  She glanced at him again and she continued.

“He left, didn’t even introduce himself.  But he’s concerned about what the letter points to. Said something about if it fell into the wrong hands, dropped a hint about you without mentioning you by name.”

“He’s dull but he’s far from stupid,” Vincent muttered.  “I expected as much.  Nothing else?”

“No. She won’t budge on details.”

He looked over his shoulder at her and held her gaze, deciding if she was lying.  He dropped his gaze first, an unusual move for him, but his thoughts got ahead of him.  He turned back towards the window and any trace of the man beneath his well-curated persona vanished.

Just like that night.

“Of course she won’t.  I don’t like buying without knowing what I’m purchasing but if Laurent is after it…”

Sophia raised an eyebrow slightly at him as she turned away from the computer again.  Vincent Karm, take cues from anyone but himself?

He didn’t finish his sentence.  He didn’t need to.  She understood the implication; if Raphael Laurent is after it, it had to be good and only enforced his desire to get his hands on it.

Vincent turned his attention back to her and approved the new layouts after minor adjustments.  Esteban woke up from his nap soon after, stretching from the bed with a soft whine. He trotted over and sniffed around her bag before finding what he was looking for: the banana toy Eugene gave her for him to play with.

The pug went back to the bed, chewing quietly on the toy as Theo continued to sleep.

They discussed deadlines for marketing, hanging, and caterers, and Sophia felt as though she was back in New York.  This was familiar territory, just in a different language.

Vincent called Esteban softly as he began leaving the office, only to stop in the doorway when he noticed the dog didn’t follow him.  Sophia watched his green eyes go wide in shock as the pug stared back at him before burrowing closer to Theodora.

“What in…” He murmured.  “Esteban, come.   _Viens_.”

Brown eyes looked from Vincent, to Theodora, to Sophia, before hesitantly rising from the bed.  He trotted over to Sophia and placed the banana toy at her feet before going towards his master.  Vincent scooped him up, eyebrows furled in thought as he walked away.

* * *

_Well, that was a disaster,_  was Sophia’s only thought as the lot closed and the auction moved on.

Disaster didn’t even begin to cover it.  The look of absolute  _fury_  on his face went way above disaster.

The auction had gone well enough until Vincent got into a bidding war with Raphael.  He almost won the lot until Raphael jumped in at the last minute and upped the bid by another thousand.  

And Vincent? Vincent was pissed.

She didn’t dare follow him, knowing Sarah would see immediately.  But she couldn’t help but let her eyes follow his figure as he left the room, stalking away like a wounded animal of prey who missed his meal.  

It was her fault.  She should have tried to buy it before it went to auction.  Should have convinced Sarah to sell it privately.

He probably would have wiped her debt clean if she had.

She spent two weeks avoiding Vincent, not that she had to really try.  He was fuming.  Furious.  Brooding. Eugene mentioned having to tail Laurent, track his movements and thoughts, while Vincent instead put the finishing touches on his revitalization of  _Faust_.  

He was always so busy anyway that his frustration was indiscernible from his usual activities.  For the most part.  TJ, too, saw the darker obsession taking root.

None of this was going to end well, he said, as they rode the elevator to Vincent’s office one spring morning.  With them was another woman, blonde hair and jade eyes, quietly standing off to the side.  She wore a black skirt and white shirt, plain.  Almost like a canvas.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Sophia settled into her usual seat as she and TJ and the new woman sat down and waited for Vincent.  She let her thoughts go to the text she got from Alexandre about a possible plan for a forger.  He had orders and needed to get things moving again.  

Candidates and suspects, he’d said.  His stupid Order didn’t even know who was plotting against them.  Yet they were using the paintings to gather whoever they could anyway.

“Hello?   _Bonjour?_   Are you always so spacey?”

Sophia jumped when a hand was waved in her face.  She followed it to the blonde from the elevator, a look of concern across her features.

“Uh, no, I’m not.  Sorry, I have a lot on my mind.”

She raised a manicured eyebrow at her.  “ _Another_  American?”

“Does that bother you, Ms. Valette?” Vincent’s voice rang from the doorway of his office, one hand on the door handle and the other resting on the closed, second door.  “I think you’ll find most of my employees and your coworkers to be of multiple backgrounds. If this is a problem, then you can find your way out.”

She turned her gaze back to the stranger, her expression sheepish before a sickly sweet smile crossed her face.  This…Ms. Valette clearly hadn’t anticipated Vincent coming out of his office to pick them off one by one, as he normally did.

“Not a problem at all, Mr, Karm.”

Sophia watched a frown tug at his lips before he decided how to handle her, the familiar smile gracing his lips that made the blonde  _think_ she’d done the right thing.  She was clever, but Vincent was better.  If she thought she was going to play him, she had another thing coming.

“Be sure it stays that way.”

TJ was first, as always. Which left Sophia here with the stranger after the office door clicked closed.

“You must be Sophia, then.  Sophia Cousland,” the blonde woman said, holding out a hand.  “Marion Valette.”

That was a switch.  Sweet and nice to professionally sizing her up in less than a minute.  She was, as everyone who worked for Vincent was, ambitious.  Eager to please.  It oozed off of her in the same way it gushed from newly-hired college graduates and interns.

Her hair was messily piled on her head but her posture and her clothes were tidy.  Her skirt was to her knees and her top didn’t bunch or stretch in any of the wrong places.  Her outfit was versatile, blank, but demanded she was taken seriously.

“You know about me?” Sophia took her hand after a moment, her blue eyes falling from the hand to Marion’s jade ones.

_I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned…_

“Vincent explained a bit of your work in order to explain mine,” she elaborated.  “Or rather, explain his offer.”

Sophia suddenly found her mind blank.  The only work she was doing was taking care of his collection and dealing with this cloak-and-daggers nonsense regarding a threat to the city.  Was he  _forcing_ her to take on a partner in this endeavor?  In any part of it?

“Oh?”

“Something involving  _City of Love_  and Raphael Laurent’s recent acquisition.”

Sophia nodded in understanding, looking out the window to her left, away from Marion as relief washed over her.  At least it meant she would still be working alone.  The less people involved, the better.

 _Perhaps that’s why it’s so hard to consider people.  It’s replacing someone that died because of this. Putting someone in danger knowingly._   She thought absently.  

Their conversation continued, mostly small talk, and although the line between genuine and saccharine was blurry, Marion wasn’t as ridiculous as some of the others she’d met.  She knew her shit and she knew what she wanted.  She was incredibly flattered, she mentioned, to have even caught Vincent’s attention.

A dark part of Sophia wanted to know what he had offered her.  TJ’s situation was obvious enough, although he never delved into how, specifically, he ended up here.  It helped, knowing others’ circumstances, to know where she was in relation to them.  Whether she would be dealing with them at all, which often wasn’t the case.

Otherwise, she couldn’t help but admire Marion’s ambitions.

The door opened not long after their conversation changed to fashion, although not in the way Sophia expected, and TJ walked past them in a blur of orange and black.  She’d barely had time to acknowledge his presence before Marion was called sharply into the office, much to Sophia’s surprise.

And so she was left with her thoughts.  She unlocked her phone and reread Alex’s texts again.  Specific enough to indicate what was going on but still, as always, incredibly vague.  She asked how many suspects, roughly, to which he replied, “Less than five.  Your info awhile back from Interpol was helpful in narrowing down the list.  Will discuss later this week.”

Well, at least it meant research had been done.  

Marion wasn’t in the office long and Sophia heard her thank Vincent graciously.  Stroking his ego. She knew how to read people, she had to give the other woman credit on being able to adapt to almost any social situation.  

Sophia released a breath and headed into the office, closing the heavy door behind her.

* * *

His private office was the most intimidating space for her.  The one at Karm International was clean, modern, but not without its level of gravitas and decorum.  And the one in his penthouse was personal, a look into the life very few people ever saw.

But she had been right when she told him this space was the one that revealed the most about him.  There were no chairs for visitors, only a collection of windows to the right of the space, framed by heavy red drapes with gold embroidery.  Bookshelves lined with title after title, well-loved copies of  _The Prince_  and  _Faust_  on display for anyone to notice.  Every piece in the office was specially chosen to demonstrate the extent of his personal collection.

To remind all entrants that they, too, were nothing more than the Koons’  _Balloon Dog_  on the shelf, than the African mask on the wall, than the sculptures by the fireplace.

Valuable to only him.

“I don’t think I need to voice my disappointment about how this has gone, Ms. Cousland,” Vincent’s eyes were on his laptop, not even looking at her to acknowledge her presence.  “But Laurent is a determined man and this is merely a setback.”

She waited, knowing better than to interrupt his thoughts.

“It has come to my attention that he, too, has turned abroad for his help.  His company recently posted a job opening for a culture columnist position, not long after he purchased the letter.  And my sources tell me he’s scouted an American, a talented investigator.”

 _And you want me to…?  Take up another role when I’m barely sleeping as it is?  No wonder TJ feels the way he does, Vincent runs his people ragged._   Sophia thought bitterly.   _I_ know  _I failed.  I don’t need to be told twice._

“Ms. Valette is to continue the work you’ve started,” he finally turned his attention to Sophia.  “She’ll pick up the threads of the Heloise riddle and work for Laurent alongside the American.  Be the eyes and ears I need inside that office.”

What was she supposed to say?  Did that statement even warrant a response?

“Considering your current project seems to have come to a standstill in progress, I would like for you to keep an eye on this American journalist.  Befriend her if you must, I care not for how you accomplish it.  But I want her watched.”

“No.”

The word tumbled through her lips before she even knew she said it and Sophia watched Vincent’s eyes grow wide in surprise.  The expression didn’t last long and was replaced by a scowl and a flare of anger.

“I’m sorry?” Vincent snapped.

“I said no,” Sophia repeated, stronger than before.  “I understand that this is my fault, to some extent.  I should have bartered with Sarah and bought it before it went to auction.”

The scowl didn’t budge but he said nothing and she continued.

“But I’m finished taking on anything else that requires lying and deceiving and watching my back.  Anything more and I risk becoming sloppy.  I already have a killer who’s seen my face.  I’ve already seen someone die.  You hired me for two things, one of which is a cover for the other.  To be a consultant and to find the root to why these forgeries are being made and who wants to destroy Paris and why.”

She wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, that he could find someone else to deal with this obsession.  But the word ‘no’ already put her in territory she had never been before with him.  Being openly angry and aggressive might get her somewhere with him if she hadn’t worked so closely with him for so long.  They’d established a rational, sometimes playful and familiar, rapport.  

“So no, Vincent, I will not spy on her.  I will have nothing more to do with this letter and whatever artifact is supposedly buried in the riddle Heloise wrote.  I will continue to do what you’ve asked of me as it pertains to my current responsibilities.”

Sophia waited for a response.  He’d said nothing, only watched her as she stood in the middle of the room, below the modern chandelier as thought it was a spotlight, as she denied him.  He had sat back in his chair, scowl and furled brow easing in their tension enough to pass for a neutral expression.  His eyes were narrow, peridot slits, and she knew he was preparing his response.

But she didn’t want it.  

_Screw firing me, he could kill me.  If he wanted to._

Sophia turned to walk out of the office and her hand hovered over the handle when he finally replied to her.

“I don’t blame you.”

The quiet tone made her hand freeze before it touched the metal of the handle.  Quiet anger was always more frightening than shouting, than fury.  It was tempered, controlled, released at  _just_ the right moment.

“Laurent will get what he deserves for cheating me out of what I want,”  Vincent said.  “And I understand your reasoning; one person is, after all, already dead.  It’s best to avoid unnecessary damages.”

She pulled her hand away from the doorknob entirely at his hard emphasis on the last few words.  She felt as though the temperature dropped ten degrees, her skin breaking out in goosebumps as she waited for the conditional statement.

“You still owe me…what, thirty-million dollars?  A little over twenty-four million Euros?  A long way from where you started but nowhere near finished, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sophia swallowed but said nothing.  He wouldn’t expect a response.

“And if you’re so intent on focusing on the tasks I’ve given you already, you would find your forger and your historian, let them report to you, and step away from dirtying your hands handling forgeries and planning.  And focus on finding the threat, on the exhibition details I have yet to have finalized.”

He was right.  If she was so concerned about spreading herself too thin, about her lies becoming tangled, she should do what she meant to months ago; follow Catherine’s advice on helping Alexandre.  Keep her cover.  Pay down her debt.  Pretend she didn’t feel oddly at ease in Vincent’s presence, even now despite the tension, as if her world only made sense with him in it.  

She was doomed if she didn’t get over this…whatever this was.  

She turned around only to find him scribbling something, eyes focused on the paper in front of him.

“That’s all, Ms. Cousland,” he said, dismissing her.  

She did the right thing, she knew she did.  So why did the sharp edge in his tone feel like a knife to her gut?  


	10. Chapter 10

Sophia blinked as a large pile of folders and papers was dropped in front of her on the dining room table.  She’d been lost in thought, her computer open to her left and a glass of wine in her hand, the rim never managing to make it to her lips.

She  _wanted_  to work on her draft.  But Vincent had other ideas and was keeping her busy on his exhibition.  Two weeks to go.

He was too busy having Laurent’s new journalist followed.  Too busy putting his pawns in place.

Which included her, she well knew.

“What is  _that_?” She eyed the stack warily, only for more to be added to it.

“Collected information on the seven different suspects,” came the tight reply before another stack was dropped on top of it.  “And possible artists.”

Sophia glared at the stack.  “No historian?”

They needed two people.  If she was going to take a less active roll, they needed two people.

“We are...confident that one isn't actually necessary.  Follow the formula, follow the style, and no one should know the difference.”

Her phone chimed and she ignored it, turning her attention back to the laptop.  She was in no mood for this.  For Alexandre and these forgeries, for texts, for finalizing the press release she’d been sent.

“I was told to share what information we had, so a thank you would be nice,” Alexandre grumbled, closing his bag.  “We don’t share with outsiders unless we have to.  For obvious reasons.”

Catherine’s death was hard on him too, she well knew.

“It wouldn’t have saved her,” Sophia whispered.  “Being a part of your group.  She was always a target.”

She fixed a typo and for a moment the only sound was her finger on the mousepad.  

“I’m tired of it, Sophia,” he sank into the chair at the head of the table, to her left.  “Tired of protecting a city where the people I care about…”

She looked over at him, listening.  What had gotten into him? This was...different for him.

“What good is protecting a home when the people you care about die?  She was my oldest friend and confidante.  Paris wasn’t the same without her when she left, neither was her husband, and now…” He paused as his brown eyes fell onto the stack of folders and then met hers again with an intense sorrow.  “Now I have to look him in the eye and pretend she was dead all along.”

Catherine’s death was almost a year ago.  He’d been distraught, of course, but this...she couldn’t help but wonder where this came from.  So suddenly.  Had something triggered it for him?  

This pain seemed so...deep.  Pushed down.  Forgotten about.  Raw.

“This can wait,” she laid a hand flat on the stack of folders, hiding her surprise at how dense it felt.  “At least for tonight.”

He wasn’t in the right state of mind for this and neither was she.

“May I?” He gestured to the kitchen and she nodded.

Sophia turned back to her laptop and her phone chimed  _again_ and she sighed, turning it over to see the sender.  It was an unknown number, a French number, but one not in her address book.  She opened the messages to find pictures of a young woman, perhaps mid-twenties, smart-looking and pretty.

“Met her today, she’s so...not what I was expecting,” was all the text said.

Not TJ, then, so perhaps...Marion?

“Marion?  How did you even get my number?  I want nothing to do with this situation, surely Vincent explained that.”

She heard cabinets being opened in the kitchen and the familiar pop of a wine cork.  She had emptied the last bottle into her glass, sick of seeing it unfinished on the counter.  And yet it still sat unfinished, just in a different vessel.

Another chime, and this time, she clicked off the sound so she didn’t have to hear that annoying noise anymore.  

“TJ passed it along.  And he did, he made that abundantly clear, actually.  Said you have more than enough to do, but I thought it would be good for you to at least know what she looks like.  Never know where she’ll stick her nose.”

_Oh,_ you  _thought, did you?_

She left it alone, instead channeling her tiny kindling of fury into the final didactic text she was typing up and then polishing off the wine as Alexandre returned and sat down.

She was about to turn this damn thing off, honestly.  Just another distraction.  Her screen lit up again as Marion said, “He hired me to second him, after all.  You might not be involved anymore, but if she’s good, she can find you and put pressure on you easily.  Don’t go thinking you’re something special just because he sees what you’re capable of.”

“Pot. Kettle.  Black.  You should eat your words more often, Marion, although I’m sure they’re quite bitter.”

“Only as bitter as that coffee you made the other morning. Could smell it from the corridor.”

“Haha.  Very funny.”

Vincent liked her coffee, actually.  At least, it seemed like he did.  Eugene could easily go and get coffee or make it, but she noticed coffee was now the unspoken reason for Vincent intruding into her tiny office.  He said it was quieter on her floor.  

They wouldn’t even talk sometimes.  She’d continue working, he’d fix his coffee, and he’d watch the city  from the floor to ceiling window.  He had a better view of the city as a whole but she had a pretty view of the Seine.  

They never made mention of her refusal to do as he asked of her.  He’d accepted it and swiftly moved on.

Sophia sighed and put her phone out of view, screen-down.  She’d be able to handle Marion if she was in a better headspace, but she wasn’t, and she didn’t want to say anything she didn’t mean.  She hardly knew the woman.

“Sophia,” Alex’s voice drew her from her thoughts and she fixed her blue eyes on him.  “I have a favor to ask.”

He pointed to her laptop, to the didactic texts she was working on.  She’d told him about the project weeks ago and he’d actually given his input on her initial layout idea.  

“You’re in charge of the whole exhibition, right?”  He took a large sip of wine and she vaguely thought maybe letting him drink wasn’t the best solution to his pain.

“Vincent has all final say on everything but yes, essentially.  Why?”

“Is there room for anything else?  Another piece?”

Sophia cocked her head, brows furled.  He couldn’t be serious. She’d spent a week and a half alone on  _perfecting_ the picks for the show.  She’d finally figured out where everything was going and all the other details.  

“Why?” Sophia asked, jaw tense, the small fire building up in her gut again.  

Everyone  _wanted_ something from her.  But it always seemed like what one person wanted conflicted with another and she was running out of energy to keep trying to make it all work.

“Since the exhibition is open to the public, I thought you might take one of ours.”

He meant ‘ours’ as in his organization, she knew, not them.  She was nothing but a pawn.  A pawn for many people, but mostly for the person who signed her checks.  And that was Vincent.

“All of the paintings are his, Alex.  I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“He knows what he has, what he sells and what he buys.  I would be spitting in his face if I just went and hung a painting that could ruin his collection if anything else saw it for what it was.”

A fake.  A forgery.  A message to people she didn’t even know.

“I’ve seen the guest list and I know some of the people attending.  They’re the ones who-”

“No, Alexandre.  I might work for him but that would make him a target, too.  He hired me to figure out what the hell is going to happen and I…”

_I work for him, not for you.  I take my orders from him._

She was getting defensive.   _Too_  defensive, she realized.  

“It would ruin a lot of credibility for him and for me if I did that,” she finished lamely.  

“If people were liable to call it out, I wouldn’t ask,” he reasoned.  

“I know.  I just...can’t make those decisions behind his back.  I’m a consultant, a hand.”

“I understand.”

Silence prevailed again, the subject dropped abruptly.  She wasn’t in a position to say yes, as much as his reasoning made sense.  It wasn’t about her.  It wasn’t her decision to make.

_Does he really understand or is he just saying that?_   

She picked up a file and began reading instead.  She knew it  _could_  wait, as she previously said it could, but that was before Alexandre treaded into territory she didn’t like coming together.  She’d worked hard to keep the line between her lives clear.  

And she’d like for it to stay that way.

* * *

There were times she  _loved_ her job despite the conditions on which she got it.  She was in Paris, buying and selling art for one of the city’s most prominent collectors, she was able to spend the rest of her time as she saw fit as long as she got the rest of her obligations done.  

This was not one of those times.

She let Vincent’s receptionist know she was here, along with someone from d’Orsay to discuss final touches and confirmations.  Thankfully, they were flexible enough to handle Vincent’s unorthodox late-night schedule.  Midnight meetings were  _not_ on Sophia’s list of favorite things about her position.

She’d whittled away at another million of her debt in the past few weeks since her confrontation with Vincent.  Progress.  But unfortunately, most of her time was dedicated to this exhibit and to meeting people to work with them.

One artist was promising.  Leo DuBois.  Recently kicked out of his flat and in need of flexible employment.  His imitations were fairly close too, at least the initial ones.  He’d been told to copy a painting as closely as he could and change one tiny part, subtly, and show them when it was finished.

“That he’s not tethered by other obligations could be good.  He’d need a safe cover with someone else, eventually.  For safety and security reasons,” Alexandre had said afterwards.

“Yes, well, can’t have a rogue operation,” she’d said sarcastically.  

“Can’t have anyone else  _dead_ , Sophia.  Do you know how quickly this would have gotten out of control if you were dead and Karm strong-armed his way into this?  It’s already personal for whoever’s plotting.  So someone without a lot of commitment elsewhere is necessary.”

Sophia had narrowed her eyes at him, confused by the mention of Vincent.  “Why would he make it personal?  He’s my boss.  I’m expendable.  All of us are.”

He’d shaken his head and moved onto the next candidate, refusing to answer her question.

It still sat oddly with her and she did her best to shake it away, move on.  Shrug her shoulders, say ‘whatever’ and move on.  

Sophia glanced up when she heard Vincent respond to the interruption and usher whoever he was already meeting with out of his office.

Oh.

Her eyes went wide in slight recognition; Marion’s photo had been from a distance but it was definitely the other American.  She was more striking in person, her posture confident, her eyes assessing everything.  She looked annoyed, exhausted, and on a mission.  And it wasn’t just to get out of the building.

She was from Arizona, TJ had mentioned in passing.  Phoenix, actually.

Sophia remembered how he sounded.  Slightly awed after he skimmed some of her work, conflicted when he mentioned having to take a photo of her and report back to Vincent.  He’d done a lot of things but none of them involved screwing with someone’s head, befriending them to betray them.  Try and get them on Vincent’s side.  

Which made her all the more thankful to be away from that.  Juggling the journalist with Alex’s random moody downturns, clandestine interviews, and being the only person in charge of putting together this show would have driven her mad.

If she wasn’t already.

Sophia watched the younger woman from her vantage point, catching a glimpse of her face properly before the elevator door closed.  The look of a woman with determination, drive.

Whatever game Vincent was playing, it wasn’t going to end well.  Not with this journalist against him.

* * *

_Two weeks later..._

A frustrated growl echoed through the gallery, catching the attention of the security guard outside.  He peered in and looked at the woman inside, who was busy looking over lists and layouts.

She looked up and met his gaze and waved a hand awkwardly.  “It’s fine,” she said in French.

Sophia momentarily forgot she was never entirely alone here.  

Vincent was going to kill her.  Kill the entire crew who hung the paintings.  

The smaller paintings were hung too low.  The didactic texts were placed next to the wrong pieces.  A show this big couldn’t have mistakes when it went up.  She had organized everything and she silently cursed whoever did this.  

In the distance, she heard the bells of Notre Dame strike ten.  She’d been here all day, finalizing for tomorrow night.  And yet...things managed to go wrong.

She’d tell Vincent to hire a different contracting company.  Maybe let the museum handle the hanging next time.

Sophia sighed and fixed her hair, re-tying it back and draining what little coffee she had left in the thermos she had snuck in earlier that morning.  Hopefully it wouldn’t take as long as she expected it to.

Move the paintings first, didactics last.  That way everything would be level and uniform and perfect.  

Easy enough.

Sophia set to work and adjusted the rigging of the paintings slowly and carefully.  Everything was on a rail system, which meant all she really had to do was adjust the height by the thumb screw hook the paintings were on.  She did one on the right so she had a model to follow and then started on the wall on the left which had more.  She’d gotten to the third when she heard footsteps on the wood floor, lighter than those of the security guards.

“What are you doing?”  Vincent’s voice rang out across the gallery as she re-fastened the bolt in the hanging component.  He sounded offended more than curious which annoyed her all the more.

And tired.  Rare for him.  The American journalist was certainly putting him through his paces with the riddle.  He’d resorted to simply buying out the magazine just to show Raphael how serious and how close both were playing this to the chest.  If he really wanted Laurent out of the picture, he could have done it weeks earlier.  But he was growing tired of not getting answers and everything backfiring on him.

Come to think of it, she was surprised he was even here.  It was late.  Usually Thursdays were late dinners at La Paradis, if she remembered his schedule correctly.  

“Fixing,” she replied as she glanced at him before climbing down from the ladder.  

He looked from her to the didactics on a bench and back at the paintings she was adjusting.  “Couldn’t you have called someone to do it?”

Sophia scoffed.  “And who’s going to come back after dinner?  It’s fine, anyway, not like I had anything to do.  You hired me to be your adviser and, technically, I’m advising.”

She didn’t have anything else to do.  Not really.  Catherine dead, Alexandre off patrolling, Leo...well, he wasn’t  _official_  yet, so he was free to do as he pleased as long as he was painting.  Whoever was planning to destroy Paris wasn’t going to stop until everyone in her way, even the peripherals simply looking to spread the word to those in power to stop them.

Working late would mean she was on camera, seen somewhere.  Not running around in the depths of the city.  It kept her safe.

Sophia ignored him and went about fixing the next painting as if he wasn’t there.

“A personal assistant doesn’t hang paintings,” he countered, making his way around the side of the room she wasn’t working on.

“I helped hang at Arthur’s gallery; everyone did.  And before that, I helped during exhibits when I did my internships.  My dad’s a contractor, I grew up holding a level.”

She brandished the laser level for emphasis before using it to make sure everything was even before tightening the bolts.  She finished the few other smaller paintings when she noticed Vincent peering behind one of the paintings on his side, arms awkwardly reaching behind.

“And what are  _you_ doing?”  She asked, watching him step back from the painting.

“Fixing,”  he replied, looking over his shoulder at her before moving onto the next painting.

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to say, without the bitterness or annoyance he usually might have in other situations.  Sincerity seemed to glimmer in his eyes for a moment when he looked at her.  She knew him to be a man who preferred to do things himself if possible, who hated cleaning up other people’s mistakes, and despite his obvious exhaustion, he took charge as he would anywhere else.  

He cleaned up her mistakes, but only in part.  Reminded her to stop making them, not to let them hold her back or to ruminate on them too long.  As he did with everyone.

This was...different.  Working alongside her, rather than taking the lead.

He moved the next painting it to the height of the first one she did without so much as checking its height or level.

Together, they made short work of the adjustments and were matching didactics to their respective paintings.  She preferred this Vincent to the one she had seen in recent weeks, the man in an element he knew as well as his company over the darker, perhaps even sinister, man solely focused on getting the most coveted secret in Paris.  They moved in tandem with each other, asking questions and double-checking titles and information before attaching them to the wall.

Just for a moment, she felt as if  _this_ was what she would be doing had Vincent not had other intentions for her.  This...felt almost normal.

She sat down on the leather bench in front of the larger landscape painting, looking around at the room.  Everything was correct. Everything was even.  The decals on the wall were impeccable.

Something else caught her eye, however.  One painting.

One  _familiar_  painting.

“Vincent?” She asked, unable to take her eyes away from the landscape.  

She’d seen Catherine paint this one.  It was one of her last.

He came and sat beside her and she felt his gaze on her until he followed her line of sight.  

“Ah,” was all he said.

She stood up and walked over to it, her blue eyes roaming the canvas.  Sophia willed herself not to  _touch_ it, not to reach out and brush her fingers over the canvas.  She heard footsteps and felt a presence behind her, slightly off to her side.  Far enough to be respectable but perhaps only just; she could feel his body heat if she focused hard enough.

“He made a compelling argument, Ms. Cousland.  It is, after all, a  _public_  show.”

“You  _hate_ the idea of someone...tampering with-”

She stopped herself, realizing how quickly her train of thought could spiral out of control.  It wasn’t her place to consider what she thought he would hate.  Adviser. A hand.  She worked  _for_ him and while it was her place to understand him, it wasn’t her place to question him, not entirely.

If Vincent noticed, he said nothing.  

“It’s not signed, it’s not even given an artist’s name.  Only a title and described as in the style of an artist.  It is nothing but itself.  Which was my condition on displaying it.”

They’d gone around her.  Over her.  She was somewhere between insulted for having been ignored and annoyed with herself for not coming up with a way to make it work.  So defensive of his collection that she wouldn’t even consider listening to options.

“Besides, it’s better to have it in my hands than a museum’s.  It doesn’t ruin the authority of an entire institution.”

She wanted to protest and tell him that wasn’t the point.  But she swallowed her words and kept them in her stomach where they belonged, burning like white hot fire.  Kept the mask in place.  Seeing the painting brought back the pain she’d worked so hard to overcome.

“You were doing your job and considering your duty to me,” Vincent said softly.  “To make conditions on my behalf without my knowledge would have been to overstep.  Such a thin line you walk, Ms. Cousland.”

_Thin line indeed.  A line you surely almost heard me cross only a moment ago…_  Sophia thought.   _Don’t tease me like the other American, Vincent Karm.  I play enough games as it is._

Rather than voicing her opinion, he murmured, “If that’s what you want, then it’ll stay.”

Why did this small, insignificant oversight on her part hurt so much?  Was it seeing Catherine’s work again?  Partially.  Vincent was allowed to do as he saw fit; if he wanted the painting to hang, she wasn’t going to argue with him.  He would never be able to sell it, at least not publicly.  

Perhaps it was that she was the one doing all of this for him.  Collection maintenance, figuring out this cryptic threat that caused her to lose someone before she properly knew them.

And he had to go and involve himself anyway.

She was the buffer.  He  _hired_ her to be the buffer.  So why couldn’t he have just let that stand?  People would question this painting, question him.  

God forbid someone who knew the reason behind the figure in the background peeking out from a tree, skin covered in boils, draw the connection.  She understood how fragmented the group Alexandre worked with was.  That Vincent was on a list of people not to conscript.  What if Catherine’s  _killer_ saw it and drew the wrong conclusion?

She once again pushed her words down into her gut.  It was fine. It was his prerogative if he wanted to hang the painting, involve himself, gain whatever it was Alexandre offered him in exchange.  It would only make him a target.  

Which was the exact reason he had hired her to begin with.  To avoid dirtying his hands.

“Everything else can wait until tomorrow,” she said, feeling the familiar sensation of her heart clenching, wanting distance between her and whatever was causing her to feel...hurt.  Vincent.  She wanted to get away from Vincent.

She avoided looking at him, packed her things as hastily as possible, her face exhausted but impassive otherwise.

He demanded she do her job and when she did, he did this.  Put himself out there.

Catherine had  _died_ because of this.  

She couldn’t lose him too.  Maybe she would in a different way, if that other American had her way.  There was no way to tell.

Everyone she knew was, in some way, an anchor.  Part of the life she’d made for herself abroad.  Almost two years of being here, it was beginning to feel like home, in a weird sense.  Her mind was in a haze as she tried to sort through her feelings, fighting to keep neutral and calm.

They walked out together, escorted by a guard, silence hanging between them.  

Sophia averted her eyes from Eugene’s, the valet waiting outside to open the Maybach.  She wanted to be alone.  Away from people watching her, assessing her.  He opened the door for the taller man and waited as Vincent paused and turned to her.

“Until tomorrow, Ms. Cousland,” Vincent said smoothly.  “I look forward to seeing you in action.”

She had half-expected him to offer her a ride home.  Had she been that obvious in her desire to be alone, in her annoyance over the painting?  

They both knew it wasn’t actually the forgery she was upset about.  He wouldn’t be who he was if he couldn’t figure that out easily.  

That he wasn’t insisting she ride with him was a sign that he recognized her need for space.  Physical and mental.  

He could insist she sit next to him, as she had last year, center console between them but nothing to hide her from his words or his gaze as he read her like an open book.

But he wasn’t going to.  

And for that, she was thankful.

“Goodnight, Vincent.”

She turned to walk towards the nearest Metro station, the Maybach passing her and heading off into the night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strong cursing is used in a few spots.

She fastened her earring and then swept her hair up, her hands quickly working on autopilot as she styled her hair as she’d done for years for events like this.

She’d pulled the shades on the windows of the office closed in order to change. Most of the office was cleared out by now. It was Friday, no one would stay late.

Sophia smoothed the skirt, using her computer’s web camera as an impromptu mirror. She’d initially figured she would wear black or a dark color, but with some nudging from TJ, she’d decided to go with a champagne colored dress instead. Semi-sheer mesh lace with a midi-length high-low skirt, the back entirely mesh until her waist. It shimmered a little bit. She’d paired it with gold heels, the straps crossing over her toes once before wrapping around her ankles.

Shoes she might regret, hence the flats she also brought along, peeking out temptingly from the small overnight bag at the foot of the desk. Ever since she sprained it, it was harder to wear heels, and so far she’d only rolled her ankle once since that afternoon so long ago. She couldn’t let such a thing stop her though. No. She’d wear the heels for as long as she could bear it and change when necessary. This was  _Paris_ , she could suffer a little while to help host an exhibition in  _Paris_.

Sophia gathered her things, locked the door, and was heading down the corridor when she heard her name once. She kept going, considering she’d heard wrong and that maybe that wasn’t for her.

And then she heard it again; American, frantic, but not panicked. She turned to catch sight of an orange jacket and dark skin, and an unmistakable bow tie.

TJ was catching up with her, slightly out of breath from having to jog most of the way. Not that she’d gotten very far, her shoes made that difficult for now until she got used to them.

What was TJ doing here? He wasn’t required to go tonight, although considering his blunder regarding the journalist, he probably  _should_. She was getting the sense that he finally had enough of Vincent’s collar around his neck and the chain keeping him in Paris.

He spoke so highly of the other American lately.

“Sophia, I need a favor,” TJ said breathlessly.

She kept her face unreadable as she reached the elevator. The less she was wrapped up in other people’s shit, the better. Her positioning wasn’t the same as it was for him. She couldn’t go against Vincent, even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t.

Couldn’t. His name alone protected her. He’d saved her from being killed by the very people she was helping. Had gotten her through the worst of her mourning and shock over Catherine’s death.

He wasn’t a fantastic human being, she  _knew_  that. But he wasn’t an enemy she needed.

But TJ...TJ was desperate. She knew that feeling, that scramble for purchase. Fine. She’d hear him out.

“Make it quick, I’m heading to the museum.”

She held the elevator door open and he stepped inside, slumping against the back wall in relief.

“I need three invitations for tonight,” he began. “We...I need to get in. And I have two friends who are dying to get in.”

Sophia narrowed her eyes in thought, glancing at him to find no trace of dishonor. He’d never lied to her before. But he was on thin ice, she knew that much. If something went wrong, it would be on her head, too.

“Please, Sophia. I need to get in tonight... _Audrey_  needs to get in...you know nothing good is going to come of this Heloise and Abelard business, right?”

Audrey. Right. The journalist. Audrey Kingsley, if she recalled right.

He’d called the other American by her name. He was emotionally attached and nothing was going to stop him now. He was always so desperate when he was attached, whether to his work or the people in his life.

 _And nothing good is going to come from whatever is being planned for Paris. A historical relic couldn’t possibly be as dangerous as that_. She thought, bitterness seeping into her mind.

She’d worked so hard on this. It was her moment to show Vincent what she was capable of when she wasn’t stalking through Paris, wasn’t looking as dossiers and wondering who the hell Alexandre worked with.

When she wasn’t wondering who was willing to kill to make sure Paris would burn. Or sink.

But...what if he was right? What if Vincent’s obsession would render all of her work null and void because he got ahead of himself?

She  _had_ extra invitations in her bag. But she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to help him.

Sophia looked at TJ again. He wasn’t bothering to hide his panic now, his eyes wide and searching her face for any indication she'd heard him. The elevator dinged and as she she stepped out, the toe of her heels caught in the seam between the door and the floor and she threw her arms out to catch herself, her larger bag and her purse leaving her arms. Her purse’s contents skittered across the elevator bank and her duffel bag bag slid until it hit the wall of the inlet the elevators faced.

She hissed a string of curses. Of course. She should have just worn the flats. She should have considered her foot placement. She sat up and gathered her things in a haze, grabbing papers and a few tampons before anyone else could, her face pink at having fallen to begin with. TJ grabbed her other bag and picked up a few lipsticks, pens, and a notebook, handing them to her.  

He helped her up carefully. “Happens to models more often than you’d think, especially in practice for shows.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, fixing her dress. “I’ll see if I can work on the guest list when I get there, you get a plus one anyway. I can’t promise anything more.”

She said it without thinking. If she had time, she’d see what she could do. There were a thousand other things on her mind, but he had never let her down when she asked him for something. Maybe she was overthinking his motives. She was so used to second-guessing so much that sometimes it was hard to take things at face value.

“Thanks, Sophia. Good luck tonight.”

She waved as she walked towards the large glass doors of the office building and headed out into the night.

* * *

It was only the first hour of the exhibit and her feet were already sore. She was incredibly out of practice. Usually it wasn’t until the second hour of an opening that her feet were aching to the point of being unable to walk.

 _Then again, four inch heels would do that to anyone_ , she mused.  _They weren’t exactly made to be comfortable._

Sophia glanced around the room, taking in the crowd. She caught a few collectors she’d met when they’d done the art fair circuits; Vincent sometimes had lunch with one or two of them. Jazz music wafted through the air, loud enjoy to be enjoyed without overpowering conversation.  There were smiles, nods, and from those who knew she worked for Vincent, congratulatory handshakes.

 _Vanitas_  would be a success.

These paintings weren’t for sale, but a large chunk of her debt was on the line depending on how the show was received. She’d been saving where she could; her salary was far better than what she got in New York, Vincent made sure of that. Her commission went to him, as it was supposed to. But she knew how to live below her means where it counted and she was biding her time. Not that she could leave without finishing up whatever business she was supposed to with Alexandre, whatever spy work Vincent wanted done, but the sooner she was free of her monetary leash, the better.

It was a nuisance more than anything.

She’d never expected this, any of it, when she first accepted his deal. Although she was dealing with a secret organization and a threat to all of Paris, she’d gotten to see Paris first-hand with a true Parisian leading her around, meet up-and-coming artists and designers, and handle paintings older than the building she resided in.

Marion was here, surprisingly enough. She’d worn black, a change from the usual red dress suit she’d spotted her wearing lately, her hair falling around her shoulders in golden waves. It was rare to see her with her hair down, but it suited her here; she wore it up too often. From the way she was laughing, Sophia could see that she’d wanted to spend the night being a little less serious than normal. Her invitation was a formality, a reward for having successfully delayed the journalist a few weeks prior.

The blonde gave her a subtle wave and an eyebrow waggle at the man she was clearly flirting with when she caught Sophia’s gaze; the American could only nod and shrug slightly in return, and mouth, “He’s okay.”

Alexandre was here, too. Not that she would expect anything less. Not only was he a prominent figure, and thus invited as a gesture of respect, but he had reason to be here. She’d tried her best not to be openly cold to him but last night still clung to her, the truth that he’d sought to go around her and overrule her decision of leaving Vincent’s show out of the possible places to hang the forgeries. Ideal audience or not. She was well within her rights to be annoyed that she hadn’t even been included in the discussion beyond being asked directly.

But Vincent was right, too. She looked out for his best interest but ultimately, the decision was his. It was his show, his funding, his paintings. He could do what he damn well pleased.

Sophia’s icy blue eyes fell on the tall figure of her employer across the room. He wasn’t what she’d expected either, that day in the backroom of the gallery, when he’d asked her about favorite artists and her article.

Vincent was conversing with a small group, at ease, and clearly in his element. Perhaps more so than at any of the parties or meetings she’d attended with him.

Gone was the man she’d seen the day she told him ‘no’, the man she’d met in New York. He let his passion and enthusiasm for his collection cross his face clear as day, just like it had when shown her around Paris. His Paris. It was tempered, certainly, since he was in public, but it was present and it was genuine.

It was there to be seen by those he wanted to see it. Sophia couldn’t help but wonder who else could.

* * *

Vincent let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding when the cluster of people he was talking to finally took their leave. The last person who had spoken to him had struck a nerve and he was fighting to keep his mind elsewhere.

Everyone else he spoke to was thrilled to see some of these pieces, many of them having been in storage for a few years. He was proud of this, proud of Sophia Cousland for ensuring the exhibition’s success, and he was enjoying himself immensely.

Some might accuse him of peacocking but he didn’t really care.

It was rare that he was  _proud_  of anyone.

It was even rarer for someone to look him in the eye and tell him no, which only intrigued him more. That she had the gall to push back against what he asks of his people, to stick to her original duties and no more, was a little shocking. Few were ever brave or stupid enough to do it, professionally or otherwise. She made her case well and knew her limits, and he’d recognized in that moment that while she knew her position of debt, she wouldn’t hesitate to protect herself, either. Even if it meant biting the hand that fed her to do so.

A voice at the back of his head considered that she wasn’t just anyone and he promptly shoved that thought back from whence it came. She wasn't ordinary, otherwise he wouldn’t have offered her a job; the people he surrounded himself with were as unique as his other collections.  She was smart, passionate, pretty (for an American), steadfast, maybe a little too serious. Icy, at times.

Except...there was an ease in that demeanor of hers, he was realizing. It wasn’t a frozen tundra as much a frozen flame, warm to only those who deserved it.

Did he deserve it? Probably not, maybe it was only given out of duty. But he enjoyed it all the same, when he could. It kept him somewhat sane as he searched for this artifact, this Essence, dealt with the journalist from Arizona.

That and, well, her coffee was good.

The two women were so vastly different, in demeanor and appearance. They were both no doubt skilled, but the journalist wore her heart on her sleeve so easily. She let her emotions get the better of her far more often. It was what made her so easy to read.

Sophia, on the other hand, might have been rash or impulsive at times, her emotion showing when warranted, but she was harder to initially assess. And as much as he tried, some days she was just as unreadable as he was.

His gaze scanned the room and for the first time that night, he actually took in what she was wearing. In a sea of dark colors, she stood out, her dress shimmering slightly, the champagne color warm against her pale skin. Her back was to the wall but she turned slightly to talk to someone, and he realized the back was only sheer material with a patterned overlay.

Her back was her weak spot, here and in her work, and she protected it well. He hoped it would stay that way.

The dress contrasted quite nicely with her dark hair, too.

Before his thoughts could get any further, however, his line of sight was blocked. A man with auburn hair and glasses, at least they seemed like glasses, is standing in front of him. He doesn’t recognize him but given his vision nowadays, it was hard to tell up close.

He just really get his eyes checked.

The voice was familiar but he couldn’t place it exactly, between the cacophony of the music and the chatter. The nearby security personnel held him back before the man could step any closer to Vincent and promptly shoved him away before he could get another word in.

A nagging voice in the back of his head said something was amiss; that never happened, not at places like this. How did such a cur even get in?

When his view was clear again, he saw Sophia, her brow knitted as she attempted not to openly frown. She back was straight and her jaw tense.

In front of her was TJ. The young man took a quick glance around and pulled on her arm, tugging her out of the room.

And just when he was about to gesture to Eugene to go check on that situation, he heard a familiar voice call his name and mention the artifact he was so eager to get his hands on.

Tonight was getting more interesting by the minute, it seemed.

* * *

“TJ, what the  _fuck_  are you doing here?” Sophia hissed as she shoved him further into the racks of jackets and shawls and bags in the coat check room. She’d caught a glance of the journalist too, of Raphael Laurent attempting and failing to get in Vincent’s face. This was a disaster. “How did you…”

She hadn’t given him an invitation. She hadn’t even been able to answer him earlier because she’d fallen and her belongings went flying and...

As if on cue, TJ held out an invitation.

“You dropped them when you fell earlier,” he said. “I...had a feeling you would say no and I wasn’t in a position to…”

He sounded so regretful. He had to know that he was hurting other people in the process of whatever it was he was doing. He’d once mentioned that there was evidence of what he’d done to end up here, in Vincent’s grasp, but she’d dismissed it. Her evidence was security footage and signed receipts and contracts. Things she was actually legally bound to.

Vincent was at least more generous than a payday lender in America when it came to money. But that came at a hefty price too, and she vaguely wondered if skyhigh interest rates were better than skulking around Paris for conspirators.

“Look, whatever Heloise is pointing to will spell disaster if Vincent finds it first. You can’t tell me you don’t know that,” TJ’s voice was harder than before. “Vincent...he takes everything you are and the very thing you wanted feels hollow, okay? My fame isn’t worth my dignity. And whatever he’s promised you isn’t worth giving up every part of your soul.”

He was trying to reason with her, but she could hear an exhaustion in his voice that she hadn’t heard before. It was so...final. He knew where he stood and it would likely cost him his life once Vincent truly understood the situation.

“I have bigger problems than that. Better the city fall to Vincent than…” she stopped herself and waved a hand. “Look, I don’t care, okay? Vincent...the only reason I’m not  _dead_  right now, is because his name protects me, and that’s all I’m at liberty to say. So forgive me for not wanting to betray him.”

She spat the words as if they were venom, and TJ looked at her with wide eyes. Had he been hoping for her to help? She’d said her situation was different than his but she’d never said to what degree. And she wasn’t about to divulge now. The less everyone knew, the better.

She went to move past him and she felt his hand reach for her wrist, holding loosely, as if TJ was almost pleading silently for her to listen. Sophia looked down at his hand and then back to his face, and for the first time that day, she saw fear.

He was scared and he was standing against Vincent anyway.

A sharp rap on the coatroom door started both of them, Eugene’s crisp voice calling for her. He entered a moment later, standing straight, hazel eyes narrowing on TJ for a moment and assessing the situation. Marion was at his elbow, and she should have expected that. She hadn’t missed the blonde’s surprise when she’d dragged TJ out of the gallery; something was clearly wrong ad Marion was intent on finding out what.

“You are being asked for, I believe your statement is wanted for an article,” Eugene said cooly.

“It’s for some fancy arts newspaper or Artsy or Artnet or something,” Marion chimes in.

“Thank you,” Sophia replied, her voice an octave higher than normal.

She hoped neither of them didn’t think anything of this.

She turned her head to TJ and pulled slightly, her arm her own again. “If you were expecting an ally, you’re mistaken,” she said in a softer voice, but her tone was just as sharp. “He’s a cruel businessman but whatever he hopes for or plans isn’t as bad as something else lingering out there.”

Sophia left the closet, intertwining her arm with Marion’s casually, the blonde leading her to a young writer with a press badge hanging around her neck. Eugene didn’t follow them and she could only assume he was lingering to keep an eye on TJ.

She tried to put the confrontation out of her mind as she answered questions but a voice at the back of her head nagged her. She’d gotten no answers as to what TJ was hoping to get out of being here, what Audrey Kingsley was attempting to do.

Twenty minutes later, she felt a hand at curve of her back, just above the beginning of the skirt, and she jumped. She glanced up to find Vincent hovering over her, his eyes only meeting hers for a second before glancing around the room. She kept her expression as neutral as she could but she couldn’t help the flicker of confusion that crossed her face. Other than a few publicity shots, they’d spent most of the evening apart.

“I should have known Kingsley was up to something,” he hissed. “And now I have to leave my own party hoping I’m wrong.”

The hand on her back pressed her forward as he began to walk, guiding them towards the gallery’s exit and towards the museum’s long entryway.

She wanted to correct him, since he was ushering her out of the building with him but before she could, he said, “Marion will finish this evening, the press are leaving now and I refuse to spend the rest of this evening letting that  _bloody_  irritating woman think she got the best of me.”

Sophia felt her heart go still in her chest for a second before it began beating with anxiety. TJ had been a distraction. He knew she would be irritated to see him and by dragging him out of the room to avoid a scene, she’d missed whatever Vincent was referring to.

And he possibly thought she was working with TJ; why else would Eugene  _and_ Marion go and fetch her?

She’d asked not to be involved in this and yet here Vincent was, dragging her back into it. She wanted to break away, tell him to go alone, that she wouldn’t be any part of this. But that wouldn’t work in her favor.

A rock and a hard place, her favorite place to be. Joy.

She swallowed the anxiety and anger stirring in her stomach as she got into the Mercedes. Vincent barked an order at Eugene before he’d even been in the car entirely and they began the trip across the Seine to Palais Garnier.

* * *

Vincent clenched his jaw as Eugene pulled away from the curb on Rue de Lille and headed towards Pont de la Concorde. Sophia has put her seat belt on swiftly and was focused on her phone. Her mouth was set into a stern line and her fingers were moving as quick as the car was through Paris’ streets. Possibly faster, given the volume of evening traffic.

Was she warning them? Had TJ distracted her and asked for her help in whatever idiotic plan they’d concocted?

“What are you doing?” Vincent asked.

“Texting Alexandre to help Marion, otherwise she’ll say everything is pretty and bullshit the rest of it.”

Her voice was tight, and he could tell she was frustrated. Of course she would be and he knew her well enough by now to know she wouldn’t throw them away. She’d had a plan.  _Plans_. She’d given her all into working on this night for months and this was what happened?

He knew better than to doubt her, than to think she’d throw away the protection her position offered. The fleeting thoughts from earlier died away. He’d seen a gambit of emotions cross her face the moment she caught sight of TJ, of Kingsley. Annoyance, anger, even fury. A quiet kind of fury.

Not like his. Not like the white hot knot rising from his stomach to his chest. He didn’t get angry often, and it usually passed quickly once he rationalized it out and logically worked through a solution. But that didn’t help  _now_ , when the fire made his heart pound and his head throb.

“She played me. Played me like an utter fool,” he hissed. “I should have known her asinine questions had nothing to do with finding the Essence. Getting me to give her my office password. Clever.”

He spat the word, the compliment like venom on his tongue. He gave her kudos for her approach. But that didn’t make the embarrassment for having fallen for it any better.

“Why your office?” Sophia asked, her eyes straight ahead as Eugene wove through traffic with ease, the Maybach smooth in its movements.

“I’m guessing something to do with my recent acquisition. Perhaps something else. I don’t know,” he growled, running his fingers through his hair and holding onto the strands for a moment, tugging ever so slightly. That helped a little. “But she’ll pay for making a fool out of me.”

He felt blue eyes on him and gave a sidelong look to find Sophia watching him. She was wary, perhaps even concerned. It was always so hard to tell. Some days she wore her heart on her sleeve, her excitement infectious and her passion clear as day as she talked about artists or specific pieces. Other times she was unreadable, stoic, and he could only tell that she was thinking. Not  _what_  she was thinking.

“Why did you bring  _me_?” She looked away again, and for a moment, he saw the trace of the New York woman he first met. Not the woman who, just a few hours ago, looked right at home discussing the show with a Parisian critic. “Eugene is far more useful.”

He sought her out when he needed a clearer head. When Raphael’s countermeasures annoyed him, when the constant game of cat and mouse was getting close to taking his patience over the line. The ease he felt around her was rare for him. She was a constant in a sea of ambitious climbers who didn’t see their Faustian deals until too late.

He could deal with the way his heart pounded when he was near her. It was pleasant, euphoric fire, the kind he’d felt only once or twice before. The kind that told him nothing else mattered except that feeling.

He  _couldn’t_  handle his blood pressure every time he was jerked around and his limits tested. He’d get what he wanted. He would get this relic, and he’d find a way to use it.

Just...not on her. Whatever the effects, Sophia wouldn’t be part of it.

_Is that just another lie? I said you’d be kept away from the Essence and this business with Raphael and yet I couldn’t stand to not have you here…you’re here because I need you._

Not that he would tell her that. Not that he could.

_You have no idea how useful you just sitting next to me is, do you?_

“You’re here because I want you to be,” his hands relaxed, fixed his hair, and fell back nearly into his lap. “And I trust you. You have an understanding of Paris’ underbelly, something that won’t go amiss if this gets me what I want and all goes according to plan.”

She nodded, her thumb wiping away a stray smudge on her phone. She wouldn’t ask any more. His answer didn’t satisfy her and he watched her bite her bottom lip for a moment before she remembered her lipstick and stopped, turning to face the window.

Whatever facade she threw up couldn’t hide the anxiety practically vibrating off of her.

As if reading the tension, Eugene reached over to the passenger’s seat and passed a bag to Sophia, which she took gladly. She removed the sharp stilettos and replaced them with a pair of flat slippers, seemingly glad to be rid of the uncomfortable shoes. She put the bag at her feet and went back to staring out the window, watching Paris pass them by.

He should have left her behind. But that also left her susceptible to whoever might connect the painting to her, to him, to Alexandre Vasiley. He’d wanted to be around for that, if it happened, and with this nonsense, he couldn’t be.

He mentally ticked off three reasons for having brought her along. This wouldn’t be safe. But it was safer than her facing her attacker again in a crowded room.

And it wasn’t as if his spoken reasons weren’t true. She had hand-drawn maps of the catacombs, the sections she traversed to get to the floodgates when she patrolled with Vasiley. She knew enough to get by.

Although...the mere pretense of TJ Carter struck him as odd. He hadn’t been given an invitation, although he’d been kept on the guest list for posterity. He’d struck him off at the last minute, so that he’d be forced to ask to attend.

Yet. He’d been there. Had a whispered conversation with the woman next to him before she’d pulled Carter out of the room. She clearly hadn’t been  _pleased_  to see him but neither did she call security.

His gut wrenched for a moment. Was she, too, slighting him? She was the one who controlled invitations, the flow of information. He kept his breathing controlled but couldn’t help but conclude she was involved, somehow, in the start of this scenario. He had no evidence. No knowledge. Just what he’d seen at the party.

He was surprised at how much the prospect hurt.

They arrived at his private office a few minutes later, the opera house silent and still, even for a Friday. No productions tonight. But of the few lit windows, his office was one of them.

“Got you,” he hissed, beginning the usual route up to the space, Sophia not far behind.

Her footfalls were quieter, and he kept expecting her to be closer to his shoulder than she usually was. Right. Different shoes.

Her ankle, the one she’d hurt so long ago, was swollen. Not awfully, but she was probably in pain.

He wanted to shove away the thought but it stayed with him. He would need her on foot later, probably.

“Go back to the car,” he said as they began ascending a staircase. “Or wait outside. I shouldn’t be long.”

She stopped in her tracks, her lips parted as if about to speak but her mouth closed again when she thought better of it. He didn’t miss the look of annoyance flash across her face, as if to ask what the point of bringing her was if he wasn’t going to let her  _help_.

He said nothing else, his legs letting him take the steps three at a time as he longed for the peace of the previous evening. Of the two of them working in tandem, in a synch he’d rarely experienced with anyone else. He clenched his jaw and muttered his password, determined to get what he wanted.


	12. Chapter 12

Sophia stalked out of the opera house, ignoring the throb of her ankle.

She could just…lay in wait. Lurk. On the off-chance Kingsley made a run for it. There  _was_ a performance tonight, she could easily blend in with the crowd. But Vincent was expecting her to accompany him after this.

One place she couldn’t stay, however, was outside; she didn’t have anything to throw over her dress and it was a chilly evening. She got back into the Maybach, biting her cheek and keeping quiet as she and Eugene exchanged a glance.

She checked her phone, saw no messages from either Vasiley or Marion, and locked it again. The anger she felt at having been just as fooled as Vincent burned when she first realized what happened but now it had receded into a dull ache. One she couldn’t pinpoint the origin of.

He’d dragged her out of the party only to leave her sitting and waiting as he played with Kingsley and Laurent the way a cat played with its toys. Claimed he needed her but benched her as soon as something was wrong.

Her wretched ankle hadn’t been much of a bother before. It was never a problem when she and Vasiley checked the floodgate he’d taken to her so long ago. But then again, she didn’t wear heels to do that.

It didn’t even really  _hurt_.

“Does he do that a lot?” She found herself asking. “Do one thing and then two seconds later change his mind?”

“Only when he realizes an error not easily fixed,” Eugene replied, his eyes now glued to the paperback he was holding. “His thoughts get ahead of him on occasion.”

Such rare moments those were, it seemed.

Eugene often read as he waited for Vincent when he didn’t have other errands and always seemed to have a book nearby. She vaguely wondered how many books he went through on a weekly basis, considering how busy Vincent kept him.

“Can I say something, Ms. Cousland?” Eugene asked after a beat, glancing at her in the mirror. His tone indicated he had every intention to say it anyway, regardless of her answer.

She didn’t reply, only met his gaze. He was always candid with her, sometimes humorously so, and they’d gotten along during her time in Paris.

“I’ve worked for Vincent since I finished university. That’s...more than ten years, at this point,” Eugene said, his fingers dog-earring his page and setting the book down in the front passenger seat. “I know him as well as a servant should. Which also means I know when he’s more than financially invested in certain parts of his life.”

_Where is he going with this?_ Sophia thought, her heart beating faster at the sudden seriousness of the conversation.

“He trusts you, which is a surprise, given more recent events. He’s been hurt by people he’s trusted before, personally and professionally. And you’re here because he wants you here, because he feels he needs you to be.”

Sophia’s lips pursed for a moment, taking in his words.

“You intrigue him, I think,” Eugene continued. “And there’s an ease when you’re near or mentioned. I watched you two last night, briefly, just to make sure security was doing their job. You make quite a team. He listens to you, respects you; if he didn’t, he’d have called people in to finish for you.”

The silence of the car was deafening as Eugene paused and then said, “And I would hate to see him devastated yet again because he put that trust in the wrong person, Sophia Cousland.”

Ah. He  _had_ taken the earlier moment with TJ for what it wasn’t, then. Of course. He was Vincent’s right-hand man for everything Vincent couldn’t get to; just as she protected his collection, Eugene protected Vincent.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she met his eyes evenly, perhaps with a harsher look than she’d meant to.

_It’s not as if it’s anything more than that, anyway. Mutual respect, occasional banter. He owns me. I’m a means to an end._  She thought.  _Means don’t become more than what they’re designed to be._

Eugene said nothing and picked up his book again, as if their conversation never happened.

This was taking longer than it should have, she realized. Twenty minutes had come and gone and Vincent was nowhere to be seen. She fidgeted before excusing herself to slip out of the car and inside, cursing herself for drinking too much at the party. At least it gave her a reason to get out of the confines of the Mercedes and do something other than wait.

She was on her way back out of the opera house when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye as she passed a staircase. Sophia looked up to find TJ dashing up the stairs and cursed. Her phone chimed with a text that read, “Notre Dame” along with what looked like a poem. It took her a moment to realize it was the riddle from Heloise’s letter. It had to be.  


_Paradise above, inferno below_   
_Slinging arrows of joyful sorrow_   
_The heart’s lone isle, Lutetia’s blood_   
_Hark reason, master the flood._

Lutetia.

Flood.

She remembered the coin she was shown, how Katherine had mentioned Lutetia being the ancient name for Paris.  The waterway.  

Sophia gripped her phone and resisted the urge to bombard Vasiley with questions. She didn’t understand how anyone could assume she was pointing to something like an ancient artifact. This was clearly a warning. One that could have been literal but mistaken for metaphors because she was a woman, or because all of her other letters were far beyond their time.

She resisted the urge to scream. This helped. She wasn’t sure how, really, but it was something tangible. Something more than a story told to her.

She returned outside only to find the Mercedes gone. Of course. She could catch up to them; she was expected to if he’d told her where he was going. He couldn’t wait for her, not if he wanted to beat everyone else to the finish and get this artifact.

Kingsley’s voice rang out and Sophia ducked around a corner and into the shadows created by the undulating curves of the outer wall. The journalist was accompanied by TJ, still out of breath, and Raphael Laurent.

Sophia had known about Sarah’s decision to break off their relationship; she’d been to lunch with the woman weeks before. She mentioned how she saw Raphael less and less, felt more like an accessory than a partner, and Sophia couldn’t blame her for her decision. Sarah was too headstrong, too determined, to be anyone’s second fiddle.

He didn’t look as broken as Sophia expected him to be. But everyone took break-ups differently.

Sophia watched and listened as the trio figured out Vincent’s whereabouts, hemmed and hawed about what to do. They’d be too late, if Vincent already managed to bring in a small crew of workers to tear up Notre Dame’s floor.

She bit her cheek again as she heard Raphael exclaim that Vincent was wrong. The man began walking before he offered even an iota of explanation, long legs leading him away from the opera house.

_Was_  Vincent wrong? Maybe Notre Dame was correct but had nothing to do with this Essence? Her mind went a thousand miles an hour in circles, feeling as though this riddle was more than it seemed, told more than one warning. She needed answers, answers she couldn’t get just now. Not the ones she wanted anyway.

Sophia waited for the group to be a fair distance away before slipping out of her hiding place and falling into sync with their pace. If she was careful, she could tail them. She’d have to keep back, stick to the darker parts of the street, keep her footfalls quiet. If TJ turned around, it was all over.

After a few blocks, she caught snippets of Laurent explaining his thoughts.

“He correctly interpreted Lutetia’s blood as groundwater-rain falls from above, goes below. Lutetia is the old Roman name for the city, sometimes referring to the ancient parts of the city from Roman occupation, so the spring has to be in one of the oldest spots,” Raphael gestured as he walked, ecstatic to be in the lead again. “There are ancient springs underneath Paris. Vincent simply went to the wrong one.”

Sophia blocked out the rest of his ramble, wondering what the hell she was doing. She’d outright said she wanted no part of this. That she wanted to simply focus on what Vincent paid her to do.

Which wasn’t to follow his enemies and see where they were going. If she’d wanted to do that, she’d have done it from the beginning. Yet she couldn’t halt in her steps. It was surprisingly easy to follow them, both literally and morally.

But why?

Vincent was apparently wrong and it was within her power to rectify the situation, perhaps. She would do what she could. She was there, they didn’t seem to notice her, and it was an opportune chance to turn things around.

It wasn’t her business. Reminders rang in her head of her hypocrisy. That she only seemed to want to be involved on her own terms. When it suited her.

But hadn’t Vincent brought her back into the fold? He  _wanted_ her there when they found it. He wouldn’t have pulled her away from the party if he didn’t want her there. And Eugene’s words seemed to only further that; the valet wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, but he always had Vincent’s best interest at heart.

She’d technically started all of this. If she hadn’t heard about Heloise’s letter, about the theory that the letter pointed to something far more sinister, none of this would have happened. This was her fault.

And she’d damn well follow through on it, even if it meant breaking her own words.

Sophia stopped when the group reached Saint George’s Square, pulling back around a corner when she’d walked too far. She peeked around the corner and listened.

“Below our feet is a long-condemned spring,” Raphael said, staring up at the statue and then peering around, as if in search of something. “According to legend, it once created heart-shaped pools. The essence of love must be located at its ancient root!”

“Why was the spring condemned?” Kingsley asked.

“In Roman times, it was said to have evil powers. The horses or men that drank from it became rather, uh...how can I put this? They became quite excitable…”

Sophia held back a laugh by pinching her nose. Water that made people aroused? Seriously?

She heard TJ laugh before he said, “Are you saying the water made them horny?”

_It sounds so impossible yet...it seems anything in possible nowadays…_  Sophia thought.  _It could just be a crock of ancient metaphors, like the oracles or something. But...would so many people be after it if it wasn’t?_

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” the Frenchman snapped, irritated at his admission. “We must look deep underground for the root of the spring. I say we locate an initial access spot in the catacombs.”

She listened as the trio made their arrangements. Audrey made another phone call, this time to a  _cataphile_ , one of the many urban explorers of the Paris Catacombs. She’d come across one or two of them on a late night exploration when they’d had to cut through to get to the waterways. They were daring, certainly, considering how easy it was to get lost down there.

Sophia watched as TJ stayed behind and Raphael and Audrey went to the nearest catacomb entrance. She could easily walk around him if she backtracked; she didn’t want to hear a lecture from him or for him to attempt to stop her.

She waited for a moment and unlocked her phone. Her fingers flew across the screen as she sent a text to Vincent that read, “Saint George’s Square, Catacombs” before quickly pursuing the others once again.

* * *

The Catacombs of Paris were  _creepy_ , which was putting it mildly. Sections open to the public were created with a macabre sense of design in mind, built from the remains of the six million Parisians whose remains were tossed down when the city’s graveyards became too overpopulated. Sophia could appreciate the work and time Louis-Étienne Héricart de Thury put in to make the space simultaneously more respectful and eerie. That didn’t mean she wanted to spend the rest of her evening down here.

Other areas were covered in murals and graffiti, offsetting the dark and disturbing chill that was constantly pressing against her spine.

She preferred those to the dead ends filled with bones. She tried her best not to think about the occasional crunching underneath her thin shoes, about the shards of people’s remains beneath her feet. Not only because she didn’t want to attract attention but because it felt disrespectful. People were dumped here unceremoniously centuries ago, their remains meant to go mostly undisturbed this way.

Laurent and Kingsley weren’t too far ahead of her but if she didn’t move quicker, she might lose them entirely. Not that she would be lost necessarily, she was familiar enough with this tiny area, but her phone’s flashlight didn’t offer the best lighting. She was ill-prepared in every way for this venture and getting  _lost_ could mean her death.

Especially if the  _one_ person who knew she might be down here didn’t bother to consider looking for her.

That was stupid of her. To not have told someone else. Anyone else.

Her ankle was becoming more burdensome. It hurt to move and slowed her walking considerably. Her shoes weren’t helping; they were better than the heels, certainly, but they too lacked protection against the water and the dirt down here.

Sophia shivered and tried to pick up the pace, no longer caring if they did hear her and pushing the pain out of her head. What would they do if they found her? Laurent only knew her as the woman who asked too many questions, who was academically interested in working with his ex-fiance, if he remembered her at all. With TJ up on the surface, it might be safer if she was caught. She’d never officially met Audrey Kingsley and she doubted the American had done more than a basic search on Vincent to understand him, not those who worked for him.

She didn’t know this Tristan, either. She could lie, if need be, somehow get them to trust her if it came to it.

_Listen to yourself_ , she mentally chided.  _Months ago, you said you wanted nothing to do with this. That you’d be too easily confused and found out if you were directly involved. What the hell changed?_

Her heart lurched.

Vincent meant something to her. Far beyond loyalty, far beyond her employer and debtor. He was a constant in her life. This entire thing took up so much of his time already. Perhaps if she could help, and end all of this quicker, he could get what he wanted and move on. He was a better ally than an enemy and she needed people she could trust.

Snapping out of her thoughts, she realized she lost the group. Of course. She’d been walking too slowly, too carefully. She’d been too focused within her own head to pay attention around her. She kept walking anyway, trying her best to listen closely, only to step over a rock poorly. Her aching ankle gave out and rolled, and she hit the ground, hard. A stinging pain broke out across her palms and her knee.

Tonight was working out  _just perfectly_.

Sophia moved awkwardly, her weight resting on one hip as she shifted to put her legs in front of her. With her phone’s light, she saw she’d scraped her knee and the balls of her hands, the skin broken and red but without blood. Her ankle screamed but she could move it, at least. So it wasn’t broken. Possibly sprained again. A worry for later.

Slowly, she used the cold wall for purchase as she rose to her feet, relying heavily on her right leg. If she didn’t find a way out of here, she’d truly die down here now.

And she very much didn’t want to die.

* * *

Voices. She could hear voices up ahead and see dim light, tinged orange and blue. It was so stuffy down here. She wanted  _air_  so badly but she couldn’t have been down here long. Just as long as whoever was just around that bend.

Sophia hobbled and saw a small gathering of Vincent’s lackies their backs to her. Eugene’s bright hair stood out, the man in the back of the crowd but constantly awaiting orders. She tapped him and the valet jumped slightly at the touch; she wasn’t the only one spooked to be down here. If he was surprised to see her at all, he didn’t show it. He shifted and gave her the space he previously occupied, his back facing the catacombs wall. She leaned back, the stone cold against the mesh fabric that covered her back. It felt good,  _so_  good. The room was stifling with so many people in it.

She watched as Audrey Kingsley glared at Vincent, her strawberry blonde hair absorbing the warm lighting, making it almost glow. She hissed at the dark Frenchman that he couldn’t treat Raphael like a guinea pig.

“That’s right, men. Keep his head down as long as possible!” Vincent ordered, steepling his fingers as he looked on.

“You monster! What if you kill him?” The other American growled and one of the men reached forward to grab her, predicting her step towards their boss.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I’m sure he’ll be perfectly fine.”

Sophia resisted a laugh but a smile found its way to her lips anyway.  _He_ was the dramatic one and yet he didn’t even know what that spring was capable of. Surely he wouldn’t believe the same nonsense Raphael did, that the spring was supposedly known for its aphrodisiac qualities.  Her boss was logical, calculating; he didn’t care what something did, just how he could use it to his advantage.

Vincent was more than eager to see whatever this water did, that much was clear. Whatever happened, whatever she’d missed in his office, had crushed his earlier dower mood. He was almost gleeful, either to see the effects or because he was getting to use his rival for his experiment.

Probably both. Very likely both.

He drew his gaze away from the scene as Kingsley kept speaking, assessing his next steps. Probably assigning tasks in his head. She didn’t miss the slight shock cross his features at seeing her next to Eugene; it was barely discernible, if one didn’t know what to look for.

Did he want her here? Was he angry that she hadn’t followed? That she wasn’t there when he’d intended to bring her with him to navigate possible passageways under the city? That she’d gone back on her own word only to involve herself again?

She’d come of her own volition this time, propelled by a sense of dedication she thought she understood. She’d rationalized it as not wanting Vincent as her enemy. But with it came a feeling that made her stomach churn and her heart flutter. A sensation that made her long for the time before this. Before the letter, before the essence.

The kind that came with the feeling of his hand on her back, his presence near her.

She hadn’t felt that in a long time. That scared her.

She hadn’t known Vincent would make it down here in time to catch them. She’d only hoped she’d make it in time to do something. If he managed to arrive, all the better. She just hadn’t expected to fall.

His eyes narrowed just barely and then flickered to Eugene, who stood straighter, poised to follow an order.

But one didn’t come.

Vincent turned back and waved a hand, saying Raphael could be brought back up for air.

Shimmering water dripped from Raphael’s face as he was pulled back up, his shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest where it was soaked. His glasses were askew and he looked dazed, his eyes unfocused until Audrey stepped forward tentatively.

“Raph?” The journalist asked, concern crossing her features as she seemed to block out everything around them.

“You’re killing me softly with your smile! Ooh ooh, baby...be mine!”

Sophia wasn’t sure what to expect from the essence but it wasn’t bad poetry and expressions of ardor. This was...comical. Surely that wasn’t what this spring did? Reduce people to ridiculous lumps of embarrassment?

Apparently, it was, or at least Kingsley believed it to be so. “Raphael, this...this isn’t you…”

The love-drunk man continued, praising claims of beauty radiant enough to make angels weep, for people to kiss Audrey’s feet. His eyes blinked at different paces, sometimes incredibly slow and other times his eyelids flickered as if he was fighting unconsciousness.

She had to fight to keep a straight face, her agony momentarily gone as she bit her cheek to keep from bursting out with laughter. Vincent’s lips tugged into a successful smile. “I wonder, is the bad poetry a direct side effect...or is the subject naturally riddled with this affliction?”

Sophia ducked her head as she fought the urge to laugh, masking it as a light cough.

Yes, if that was all this was, it couldn’t be that bad. Not in Vincent’s hands, not in anyone’s hands.  So what? It made people gaga-eyed and act like idiots. As if other things didn’t do the same?

She looked up through her lashes, composing her face, and caught Vincent’s gaze again. How long had he been looking at her? She wasn’t here to  _condone_  what was going on, just to see it through.

“I’ll have to ponder that another time...I have work to do! You may take your devoted lover and leave now, Ms. Kingsley.”

Sophia watched the rest of the scene unravel, her mind whirling. If Paris was hiding something like this, what else could it hide? What other secrets, dangerous and benign, could be housed within these tunnels, along these streets?

Whatever Heloise had written about, this or a warning about floods, it was  _real_. Which meant the threat Vincent discovered, the threat Alexandre was working hard to prevent and warn about had to be real. It could even be far more dangerous than a fresh water spring with amorous powers. It seemed as though for every light in this glamorous city, there was a shadow to match it. A city of darkness below The City of Light.

She caught a snippet about Vincent marketing the spring and then Raphael piping in about slaying Vincent with his ardor. He couldn’t be serious. He very much was, Sophia realized. Raphael Laurent might appear wide-eyed and innocent and be blinking very, very strangely, but he was dead serious about hurting Vincent.

“And I never saw anyone’s beauty so heighted by treachery!” Vincent responded, acting as if Raphael wasn’t even there.

Sophia let go of the cheek she was still biting. She tasted something metallic and realized she’d bitten hard enough to draw a small amount of blood.

She shouldn’t have been so shocked, truthfully. Audrey Kingsley was conventionally attractive; slim, average height, grey eyes that could be earnest when she wanted them to be. She was  _smart_  most of all, too clever by far. But her looks made people underestimate her.

And Vincent’s words seemed genuine. She’d heard him flirt before, pay compliments to people, but none of them... _hurt_  the way it did here, now, in the dim light and intimate space, such as it was.

Vincent wasn’t an idiot. He always had a reason for his actions.

And if that reason was because he truly wanted Audrey Kingsley, then she’d have to deal with that. Not that it mattered. She, Sophia Cousland, was nothing but a pawn in a plan. Usable. Expendable. Replaceable.

She respected, perhaps even admired, the other American. It just so happened that they were on other sides of the scenario, and that colored her feelings with...was this jealousy? Was she  _jealous_ when she already had what was being offered to the journalist?

But she didn’t, did she? Not really. There was a tinge of something else from Vincent, something she couldn’t bring herself to name.

Eugene was still beside her, closer to her now as she found herself relying too much on her right foot, leaning too far over. The valet’s arm stayed at his side but he was still, accepting some of her extra weight without issue. Again, he didn’t ask a thing, and he wouldn’t; not here. If he believed it only from her ankle, so much the better.

The servant’s earlier words came back to her. They felt different as they crossed her mind again, warnings of trust and how Vincent respected her. That’s all it was. Respect. Professional.

But something in her had crossed a line. When she couldn’t be sure. She  _cared_ , cared far more than she should.

No one could know. No one could know about the growing knot in her stomach. About the knife in her chest, the claws squeezing her lungs.

She’d forgotten how much this hurt.

Sophia forced her eyes to focus on the space  _between_ Vincent and Kingsley, told herself that as long as she could see  _that_ , the rest of this would work itself out. She heard Audrey accept Vincent’s offer to stay and watched Raphael agree to the favor asked of him, disappearing out of the tunnel.

“Nicely played, Ms. Kingsley. I see I have little to teach you.”

He never spoke like that around her. Ever.

“Why Vincent, I thoroughly disagree! I’m sure there are many fascinating tricks up your sleeve and many devious treats elsewhere on your person!”

Sophia wanted to gag. She’d followed through on this only to have to watch this scene unfold and be stuck listening to this absolute drivel. The banter continued, Vincent saying that not many women capture his imagination like she did. Like Kingsley did. He called her special.

That shouldn’t hurt. She shouldn’t feel like this. These words shouldn’t sting like a slap across the face, shouldn’t tug at her gut in a way she’d felt very few times before.

“Oh dear, your tie is crooked. Will you let me straighten it?”

The other woman’s voice was too sugary, too sweet to be real. She  _knew_ that kind of tone. It was the way gallerinas spoke in order to ease visitors to consider purchases, the way people flirted at bars. Boldly.

“With pleasure.”

Oh, yes, this was hell. Her own private hell. She tried to reason that this didn’t matter. Like the painting. Only now the situation didn’t pertain to her at all.

She watched Vincent watch Kingsley for a moment before his gaze met Sophia’s again. She hoped whatever was written on her face could pass as pain from her ankle. From her feet in general. She knew there was no hiding her agony now. It would be as clear as day on her face if anyone knew her well enough to see the cracks in her mask. The mask that protected her for so long.

He  _knew_ , didn’t he? Knew she cared too much. Knew she wanted to see this through. Not only because she started this whole thing but because that was what she did. She finished what she started.

How well he knew her.

She understood now. Her own trial by betrayal wasn’t against anyone else. She’d long since jumped the hurdle regarding her role as an informant, and her job was no longer about preventing the forgeries. It was to protect Paris. Whatever the cost. Whatever it took.

In that single look she realized he was asking her to betray herself. To put aside what she felt if he asked her to.

He turned his attention back to the journalist.

“You smell of fresh orange blossoms and...deceit!”

If not for Eugene, Sophia would have fallen over. He didn’t believe Kingsley. He’d never believed her to begin with. Played her as she had played him.

Why hadn’t she seen that? Of course. Of course, he would. He’d been so angry about it earlier, she should have known he’d find a way to gain the upper hand again. That he wouldn’t believe anything she said because a liar can spot another a mile away.

And just as quickly as it happened, Kingsley was whisked away back up to the surface. Sent to give TJ away to the authorities.

Eugene stepped forward, his eyes set elsewhere, and Sophia righted herself, trying not to wince from the pain. She’d take the ankle over everything that had flooded through her earlier. She wondered how much she’d managed to give away, how much Vincent saw in that moment.

Just as that thought came to her, he was in front of her. He was blocking her view of the spring and of the equipment to drain the Essence and take it elsewhere. Her eyes went up, first to the knot of his tie, which was  _now_  actually crooked, and then skimmed across his face.

It was quiet now except for the occasional mutter. She swore she could hear the luminous liquid  _sing_ , like the tinkling of tiny glass crystals just above a low hum of energy. Most of the workers had disappeared, and Eugene hissed orders in French at those remaining.

Vincent took once glance down and frowned at her bare feet, at her left one. It was red and swollen.

“Haven’t I already told you to be more careful?” His voice was low, annoyed but not angry. He probably wasn’t capable of being angry then, not with the Essence in his grasp.

“It would seem that’s hard to do where your interests are concerned. I rolled it, it’ll be fine in a few days,” she replied flatly, her eyes set on the tie.

She wanted to fix it. Fix the mistake the other woman made. She wanted anything to distract herself. Her hands found the creamy material of the tie and righted it, as it should have been, just when he reached for it himself.

He touched his tie as a tell. What passed as a general preening gesture covered other emotions and tensions otherwise inappropriate to act on in that moment. What kind of tension, she wasn’t sure, but almost year and a half in his employment had taught her much about his mannerisms.

Vincent guided her hands with a featherlight touch until the knot was where he wanted it. He held on a moment longer, letting go when she looked up at him. The darkness of the catacombs threw shadows across his face, exaggerating his features. When had he gotten so close to her? Had he been that close to her this whole time?

Her heart was beating faster than before. She’d never been  _this_  close to him. There was always space between them, or a person, or an armrest. Here, there was a fraction of space. Enough that, if she wished, she could walk away without insult or injury.

But did she want to?

“I thought you knew my tastes by now,” he whispered, so soft she wasn’t sure that was for her ears.

She felt a finger fix a stray piece of hair that had come free from a pin. A look of hurt, or maybe offense, crossed his face. Or so she thought; it was too dark to truly tell. She blinked only to find his face neutral, as it usually was.

If he was telling her to be careful, then he cared, but perhaps only because it was in his best interest to. She was an asset, an investment. A liability. A liability that cared perhaps a little too much towards someone who didn’t care enough. How could he? He traded in souls and loyalty and opportunity. Not emotions. She was possibly—probably—developing feelings for a man she knew so much about without actually knowing him. She wasn’t sure what scared her more: that he, too, could reciprocate, or that he might care only enough to manipulate her.

“People are a different thing,” Sophia whispered.

She let her eyes wander, memorize his face being this close to hers. It might never happen again.

“They aren’t, really. I already have those I want.”

He looked as though he was going to say something else, his lips parting for a moment before setting into a thin line again when Eugene addressed him. He turned to face the valet and she felt her lungs release a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her longing for fresh air came back twice as strong and her entire body was protesting. It was late now, closer to morning than she wanted to consider.

She didn’t listen to the rapid French, didn’t care what was being said. Before she knew it, she was being carefully led back to the surface by Eugene as Vincent stayed behind to oversee things himself. The drive was a blur of flashing lights and sounds of the city at night. There was muffled chatter of people coming out of bars and clubs, the city just as alive at night as it was during the day. She wasn’t sure how she made it up to her apartment and to her bed, but she had. She crawled under the covers and fell into as restful a sleep as she could.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Strong cursing

Sophia woke up late the next morning to a long, long list of text messages and groaned at the time stamps.  She’d missed most of them due to the lack of service in the catacombs. Of course.

Marion.  Alexandre.  Some unknown numbers.  Those could wait.

She had several from only within the past hour; TJ, Eugene, Vincent.  She had two missed calls. TJ, and then Vincent. No voicemails.

What the hell had she missed?

First things first, she needed to shower and get her ankle examined.  She made an appointment with the doctor who last treated her and left her phone alone for the rest of the morning.

Sophia left the appointment hours later with her ankle wrapped and the knowledge that the injury wasn’t as bad as her last.  She’d heal quicker as long as she was cautious, kept the swelling down, and did her physical therapy when it came time for it.

Her phone chimed with a notification just as she switched her ringer back on.  She was dreading catching up on her messages.

TJ had left her a voicemail after calling a second time.  That he was sorry, that he didn’t know what else to say to her, but that whatever happened, he was sorry.  He was far more contrite than the previous night, panicked even.

But why?  What had he done?  He’d messed up a lot lately, yes, but never with her.  Not since last night...

Oh.  Oh fuck.  

Of course.  Of course Vincent would want to know what a traitor was doing at a party he was no longer invited to.  How they all had gotten in. What the _hell_ had TJ told Vincent?  What had _Eugene_ said?  Sophia wanted to curl up inside herself.  

The fire from last night came back full force into her gut, anger burning through her veins.  Was she being thrown under the bus? She’d simply been inattentive, too focused on making it on time.  It was a mistake but she hadn’t _given_ him the invitations.  She wasn’t conspiring against Vincent.

This was exactly what _wasn’t_ supposed to happen.

Her stomach twisted as she read through the texts she had, the ones she’d ignored earlier.  TJ saying that he was sorry, that he’d had to tell Vincent _something_ in order to at least leave the office with his head still on his shoulders.  Vincent telling her to be at his office as soon as convenient. Eugene’s text was an offer for a ride or help with anything, given her leg.

Weird, for that to be offered when Vincent was clearly aggravated about this whole affair.  That didn’t seem right. She checked the timestamp and discovered it was from before Vincent’s message.  It was fair to say the offer was no longer on the table.

Sophia took a deep breath and looked up from her phone, eyes scanning the street.  There was no way she’d be able to take public transit. Steps were not a thing she was up to dealing with.  She hailed a taxi, Vincent’s office address tumbling from her lips. She kept her eyes firmly on the road in front of them as the car slowly made its way across the city.  

* * *

Vincent didn’t even look up at her as she walked in, Eugene announcing her before shutting the door without further prompting.  He was scribbling something in a notebook as he muttered something under his breath as Sophia stood, waiting. Her stomach felt as though it was at her feet rather than in her torso.  Her heart might as well be in her mouth with how intense it was pounding.

“I do not take kindly to those helping undermine me, Ms. Cousland,” Vincent said, closing the notebook carefully and placing it aside.  “You are one of the few people I work with directly, placed in a position of responsibility and trust. You might have been hired to double-cross but it wasn’t to double-cross _me_.”

She felt her brow crease in anger at his accusation before she replied coldly.  “Another reason I didn’t want to be involved.”

“Yet the three of them were able to distract me by entering the party.  They got in through invitations, invitations received from _you_.  And rather than listen, you took it upon yourself to follow Laurent and the rest when I told you to wait.  To what end, if you wanted nothing to do with this?”

_Because this is a game that needed to end.  Because I wasn’t about to see your work crushed.  Because I wanted to give you what you’d wanted for weeks._

“It certainly wasn’t to ruin you,” she snapped.  “I didn’t give them to him.”

Judging from the sharp glare he gave her, he clearly didn’t believe her.  The idea that he didn’t take her word felt like a sword being run through her.

 _To help.  I just wanted to help_.

“And you thought traipsing around in the Catacombs to be a good idea?  It’s simply pure coincidence you managed to make it through the tunnels without help?”

What he _lecturing_ her?  Seriously?  He got what he wanted, she’d given him the location he needed.  Yet here she was, being accused of working against him, of working with those trying to stop him.

“I’m not a child, Vincent.”

“I’m well aware,” his voice was cold and the air around her seemed to drop several degrees.  “Children don’t have the capacity to stab people in the back. They _almost_ beat me.  If not for those invitations, the evening would have gone far differently.”

“Like they wouldn’t have attempted their plan anyway?  Like they wouldn’t have figured out the riddle without you?”  Sophia retorted. “I was just as angry as you over seeing them there.  If I had willingly handed over invitations and gotten them inside—”

“You were the one in control of the guest list and the flow of information.  You were entrusted with invitations. Security said they entered as everyone else did, cards in hand.  You alone were the source of their means of entry. You left the party and were found conversing with Carter, who has been very open about attempting to free himself from his feter.”

Vincent stood and walked around his desk, hands behind his back.  His movements were slow, a predatory glint in his eye. He stopped when he towered over her, further away than the previous night, but still close enough for her to smell him.

“I didn’t do it,” she repeated harshly, swallowing the lump in her throat and finally looking up at him.  “I’ve done everything to dedicate my time to what you pay me to do and all I wanted was to be of use. I started this entire thing, I’m the one who screwed up at the auction.  I wanted to follow through and try to ensure you got what you wanted.”

He said nothing.

“I wouldn’t screw up everything I worked so hard to do.  I’m more than aware of who you are, Vincent Karm, of how many people would like to see you fall.  I’m not one of them. But I don’t know what else I can say to convince you of that.”

She wasn’t going to cry.  Not here. She wouldn’t, _couldn’t,_ give him the satisfaction of having gotten under her skin.  At least, not like this. He’d been there for some time, in a different way, the best way.  Sophia’s desire to sob turned into nausea as she willed away the immediate emotional response.  Not now. She could be a mess later, but not now.

Anger felt so much better.  Fury felt almost righteous. He was _wrong_ and he was too self-absorbed to see it.  To consider that, for once, someone didn’t want to hurt him or use him.  That his trust hadn’t been broken.

Maybe it was better this way.  To be angry, to hate, than to feel the sword being twisted inside of her as he accused her of things she would never do to him.

She’d never hurt him.  She’d never want to.

“You’re not the only one TJ used,” Sophia spat.  “Check the goddamn cameras from the elevator banks.”

She turned on her heel and left the office, not looking back.  She wasn’t aware if Vincent called after her but no one tried to stop her from leaving.  Maybe it was just the way she held her head, the way she strode out of the building that kept anyone from opening their mouths.  She didn’t know and she didn’t care.

Home.  She needed to go home.  Where people, where people who worked for Vincent, couldn’t see her.  Away from everyone.

* * *

Sophia had no issue getting another taxi, since the cars were far more available in this section of Paris.  She leaned back in the seat, breathing deep, willing herself to stop thinking in circles.

She turned her phone on silent and ignored the incoming call.  And the next one. And she turned off notifications for any texts from Vincent or Eugene.  No. He didn’t get to accuse her and not _listen_ to her side of the story or consider other tangible evidence.  He never asked this way, was never so impulsive with confrontations; he researched, he always knew he was right before he went in for the kill.

So what the hell was that?  Since when did he ever act on emotion, on a feeling, rather than considering all of the options first?

An idea Sophia considered before came back to her.  Her debt. She’d been frugal enough, saving most of her substantial wages for emergencies.  Vincent took her commission and put it towards her debt, paying her separately for her undercover work; her legal position was her cover.  She flicked through her banking apps, mentally calculating the sums together. It wasn’t enough to cover the rest by any means, but it would take a large chunk of it away.  Would be a break in her own chain. She could have less to do with Vincent for a while, throw herself into everything else.

She transferred some of her other savings, money she hadn’t touched since she’d left New York, into her main account.  After a few quick taps, she sent away an amount with what felt like too many zeros to the third account attached to hers.  It was one she could only deposit into, not withdraw from.

If the camera footage didn’t get her point across, maybe _that_ would.  It was childish, perhaps, to want to hurt him the way he hurt her.  He could trust her with so much and yet it felt as though he didn’t trust her at all.  If he couldn’t be straightforward and simply _ask_ her, couldn’t trust her, she would leave him with no choice but to do so or to get rid of her entirely.

This _hurt_ .  Worse than last night.  It hurt to even breathe.  Stupid, stupid, her. She had to go and get _attached_ to someone like him.  Someone like Vincent Karm with his sharp cheekbones, devilish eyes, and long legs.  With an even sharper wit and ambitious confidence that often crossed into arrogance.  

But the man that came to mind wasn’t the ruthless businessman everyone saw, the one everyone called a villain.  She saw the man she met in New York. Calculating and assessing, but genuine in his words, his mannerisms. Whose arm felt warm beneath hers.  Who was there when she got into trouble because he thought of her well-being a little beyond what was expected. Who made sure she had access to what she needed, especially regarding her grief.

The man who wanted her next to him because that was simply what he wanted.  

Sophia tucked her phone in her pocket, not bothering to check it again for the rest of the weekend.

* * *

Vincent pressed his free hand against the wooden desk and breathed deeply as he pulled the phone away from his ear to drop it onto the desk with a soft clatter.  Three calls and all of them pushed to voicemail. One ring and then her voice, in a more pleasant tone than he last heard it, telling him to leave a message.

He did, after the third time; if she bothered to listen to it, that was her prerogative.

He sat back down into his chair harder than he intended.

Vincent hadn’t missed the minute changes across her face, the way her voice betrayed her.  Last night came to mind again, her azure eyes unable to hide whatever it was she felt at the sight of Kingsley’s poor seduction attempt.  Her narrow focus on his tie afterwards. How her hands felt under his, and briefly he thought about how well they’d fit in his, how cold they’d been beneath his fingers.

How despite her evening running around underground, he’d still been able to smell her perfume when he’d fixed her hair.  Rose, but with a hint of something sweet and tart, maybe raspberry. He couldn’t place the designer, although it was definitely American.

It was a scent unique to her, Vincent realized.  One he seemed to find more intoxicating every time he smelled it.

Wait.

His mind snapped back to something and he flicked the notebook open again to hastily scrawl his thought down.  Perfume would affect multiple people at once and already carried explicit meanings and uses in regard to attraction.  People wouldn’t even _know_ they were under the influence of something-if a scent could be intoxicating anyway…

“ _Parfait,_ ” he whispered.

It felt hollow, though.  She might not have been involved in trying to get the other American to join him but Sophia made for better company to pitch ideas to.  Marion was too sycophantic. And TJ was occupied with running around avoiding headhunters. Eugene...well, Eugene was busy doing all of the things Vincent couldn’t get to.

Vincent’s phone chimed and he glanced at the screen to find a notification from his banking app.  The notification gave the number of the account the transfer came from, a fairly substantial transfer at that.  He knew those last account numbers. She’d been saving, then.

He ignored how his heart leapt at the possibility it was something else.

Specifically, a reply from the woman who had just walked out of his office.  However, she wasn’t the sort to send angry texts or feel the need to have the final word; she’d said what was necessary and left it at that.  Sophia would, as she had in grief, simply use her emotions as fuel.

Yet her actions spoke more than her words ever could.  Rather than text him, she’d sent him money. She wanted less to do with him.  She wanted to be _done_.

Maybe she’d been done for a long time and he just hadn’t noticed or cared.

It was just money.  She might as well have taken the physical cash and thrown it in his face.  The effect would have been the same. Money kept her in their deal, yes, but she’d still be employed if her debt was finished; that was their arrangement.  

But at some point, it became more than about being paid back.  More than a business arrangement.

Hadn’t it?

He felt calmer with her around and yet he felt as though he could never stay still with her in the room.  She cleared his head and simultaneously filled it. It was amazing to feel understood, to have someone know him as well as she did when it came to his preferences of style and taste.  Smart, insightful.

Sophia wasn’t afraid of him.  Respectful and wary, perhaps, but not afraid.  She wasn’t scared to question him, counter ideas and offer thoughts.  

They’d stopped being acquaintances but they weren’t friends either, he mused.  Or maybe they were. No, friends didn’t leverage each other, didn’t owe the other thousands of Euros in exchange for working to uncover a plot to destroy a city.

Partners, perhaps.  That was the easiest way to put it.

He couldn’t erase her angry expression from his mind.  He was impulsive at times but never like this. She’d proven more than once where her loyalty was; Catherine’s untimely death and the fallout from that gave him a chance to doubt, but Sophia had never once forgotten about her duties to him.  She took the time she needed but she was resolute in continuing onward.

It was such a contradiction that she wanted nothing to do with Heloise and her letter yet she was the one who was there when the Essence was found.  Sophia clambored through the Catacombs and hurt herself in order to see the treasure the metaphorical map pointed to.

Although, to be fair, he’d dragged her out of the party in order for her to accompany him in the first place.  She could have gone home. She could have returned to Orsay.

She didn’t.

She’d proven her loyalty and her drive and he’d doubted her.

Vincent frowned, his jew tense as he considered her parting words about the elevators.  He tapped the trackpad on his laptop and logged in, finding the shortcut to the security cameras with ease.  He first tried to find what time Sophia left her floor, about a half hour before the exhibit. TJ had come up just as she was leaving, from a different section, and the two were walking together.  He switched camera feeds and waited all of five minutes before he saw what she meant.

She tripped of her own accord—he mentally winced, knowing it contributed to her current pain—and her belongings went flying.  TJ has scooped up the extra invitations and several other items but only returned pens, lipsticks, and other small things. He kept the invitations and tucked them in the back of his pants, covered by his blazer.

Vincent sat back in his chair and replayed the feeds again, from Sophia leaving her tiny office to her leaving the building.  The same thing. Every time. That was the third time in twenty-four hours he felt like a fool.

She’d been right.  She’d been played, although more out of circumstance than anything else.  They’d conversed in the hallway but there was no sound so he wasn’t able to make out what they were discussing.  TJ would have found a way to get invitations but Sophia was the easiest route.

_No wonder she decided what she did, to bring herself back into the fold.  Everyone was deciding for her._

Vincent shut the laptop and leaned back in the chair, crossing an ankle over his knee.  He’d never been so impulsive with his decisions before, never disregarded evidence this way.  The last time he did, it resulted in a fallout he never got a chance to resolve. Death made sure of that.

Made sure Paul never heard how sorry he was for that night.

His best friend, gone, in a split second.  

He’d been so careful since then.  To use people before they could use him.  To let them get attached first and cutting ties when he felt the unsteadiness of his own attachment in turn.  

Caring hurt too much.

Did he care?  Did Sophia Cousland really matter to him at all?  Did it matter that she was angry at him for his assumptions?

The stab in his gut said it did even when he logically knew it didn’t.  The ache in his chest grew at the thought of having misrepresented her, misinterpreted her.  

He would fix this, but not just yet.  Not until he understood just what made him feel so damn guilty over accusing her of disloyalty.  Until he knew what made his heart sink last night upon seeing her expression, envious and hurt and slightly disgusted all at once.  He never gave this much consideration when it came to those he spent his time with, other than the importance of discretion, but then again, none of them had captured his attention quite like she did.  If this was more than a passing obsession, he needed to be certain of his next moves.

A smaller part of him wanted to race out of his office and find her and apologize and do everything he hadn’t gotten to do with Paul.  

But he couldn’t.  

She was entitled her anger and in turn, he deserved every iota of it.  She clearly wanted distance, if her deposit was anything to by; she would have it.

Vincent’s eyes fell upon the notebook, open to his quick scrawls.  Clean but rushed handwriting, a mix of English and French.

 _What is love but a madness?_  He thought.   _Madness of two people obsessed with each other, wanting nothing more than the other person?  As if nothing else matters?_

Madness of two.

“Folie à deux,” he whispered, picking up a pen and writing again.

He snapped the notebook shut and rose from his seat, resolute.  His eyes scanned his desk and he picked up the notebook and his phone, tucking the device into his suit jacket before striding out of the office, the door locking behind him.  He’d changed his password first thing that morning.

Yes, this could work.  The Essence was a liquid, it should be able to be distilled and still function in the same way.  Maybe? He’d have to test it. But this...this was something.

And it meant he could perhaps know for certain about what it was he felt.  If the Essence worked like that.

_Does it cause the user to imprint or does it actually bring out true feelings?_

That was an idea for later.  He would have his studies and his subjects, willingly, of course.  Time wasn’t on his side; if he wanted this to succeed, it needed to be done immediately.

He passed Eugene in the corridor, who was talking to a younger man, clearly a recent hire in legal.  No one ever carried that many folders. Vincent was almost certain it was a tradition for the newest lawyer to be passed a stack of the newest things for him to sign and bring them upstairs.  He didn’t have the patience for this today. His mind was finally where it needed to be and it was going to stay there.

_Of all the bloody times…_

“Cancel my weekend plans, Eugene,” Vincent said as he passed the pair on the way to the elevator, not giving the younger man a second glance.

Vincent stroke purposefully, ignoring Eugene’s stammer of, “Yes sir.”

He had a perfume to make.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short update; this was originally part of a larger scene but it works better here, I think. Vincent's POV.

Vincent swirled the luminous liquid and held it up to eye-level. It caught the light and refracted, glowing even more than it already did. Beautiful, bright, almost magical. There was a shimmer to it when it was still, subtle but powerful.

Every time he looked at it, he was reminded of a different blue.

One he sometimes attributed with a summer sky, warm and cloudless. Other days, they were starlight, bright and shining when his thoughts turned dark and cruel; a reminder that there was more than his own desires, although he longed for otherwise. The days they were dull and flat, like unpolished aquamarine, were the days he hated most. Where she was too lost in thought, too tired, too frustrated. He was more frustrated knowing that it was because of him. All he wanted was to see the light in her eyes and the more he pushed her, the more he spent time working with her, the weaker it became until she had a reprieve.

He always liked green but lately, he noticed everything with a cool tone and felt as if it was nothing compared to her.

This blue, in the glass container in his hands, was otherworldly. It held an energy inside of it that could never be contained, not truly. If he listened, he could hear a soft sound, somewhere between raindrops on a river and the sound of small chimes. So faint, he wasn’t sure if he imagined it. The essence was far more than he had ever expected it to be. In large doses, its effects were comical, the user reduced to an obsessed love-sick puppy.

Laurent’s reaction to it was a sight to behold. He was never the best poet but under the sway of Heloise's secret, his words were all the more nonsensical and obsessive. Rumor had it he was being kept under the watch of Louise Paquier in his Haussmann apartment, making every attempt of escape he could. The boundaries of self-preservation were shut down, so nothing else seemed to matter except Audrey Kingsley and his adoration. He could only imagine the press; Raphael was already out of his beloved magazine and any antics would make him look as though he was having a breakdown.

It kept them busy, at least, and Vincent was more than happy about that. One less obstacle.

In small doses, the Essence could result in easy flirting or a feeling of warmth at the sight of whoever the user saw first. Without anyone around to latch onto, a subject simply lamented for their actual loved one. Or whoever the subject pined for, even subconsciously.

It seemed the initial moment of eye contact was necessary for the relic to overrule someone’s current adoration. Or, at the very least, the presence of someone else. Three people could be in a room but whoever the subject locked eyes with first was the one who became the object of obsession. It was why Raphael imprinted onto Kingsley and not Vincent. What a mess that would have been.

Distilled, it was stronger, purer, and in a perfume, would affect multiple people at once.

Hence,  _Folie à deux_. The wearer and anyone else around them would fall into a state of short infatuation. It was brilliant. Genius, if he said so himself.

Which he did.

He never tried it on himself, of course. He was the mind behind all of this and he needed his mind clear. Or at least less addled than it already was from lack of sleep and too much caffeine. Curiosity ate at him but something always held him back at the last moment. He didn’t want to say something that could be misinterpreted but it wasn’t a fear of being interupted that made him hesitate. He wasn’t sure if there was anyone in his life that held such a place in his heart.

Or, better still, he wasn’t sure there  _wasn’t_. Not anymore.

The Essence would be a way to test if, perhaps, his suspicions were correct. That maybe he’d let his heart be taken without realizing it. Handed it over on a silver platter to an American who was currently so pissed at him she’d put herself at financial risk in order to slowly cut her ties with him. She was never rash, never one to make things so personal. He knew there were underlying reasons, that she was hurt, but she treated the entire scene as if it was a personal attack on her character.

Then again, he’d done exactly that, hadn’t he? He’d let it become personal for him too, been hurt when it seemed as though she, too, betrayed him. Usually he held more couth than that. Let people explain themselves. At least, he did so when he had the patience for it, which wasn’t often.

Perhaps it might just be better to stay ignorant, for once. To not be certain.

He was never so hesitant. Hesitation wasn’t a word he knew. Not once in his career had he hesitated on a decision, on a strike against competition. He always wanted to  _know_ everything he could about a person or a situation. If he was going to make a product based on the effects of this liquid, he should know first-hand what the effects were like.

A voice in the back of his head reminded him of how little he knew about Sophia. And how he wanted to rectify that.

He checked his watch. It never lasted more than five minutes. He had time.

Vincent poured some of the Essence into a small beaker and then used a dropper to pull up a tiny amount.

Two drops tingled on his tongue, like peppermint in winter, and then he added a third for good measure. His heart rate increased. A quick check in the small mirror showed his pupils were dilated, more than normal despite the low lighting down here. His chest tightened yet he felt lighter on his feet.

His mind wandered back to the exhibit, to the moments before everything shifted. How radiant she appeared, how her eyes sparkled when she explained a particular work or the overall theme, even though she had said the same thing a thousand times. Her smile never faltered, reserved but genuine. She carried herself with a poise that, on anyone else, would look as if she was trying too hard to fit in. But on her, she looked almost regal at times. Proud but not arrogant.

A line he always crossed and never cared about.

He recalled how distant she had been when they met, how she hid behind a professional wall she created for herself, ever present. A wall being slowly deconstructed, brick by metaphorical brick, the longer he spent time with her.

She could make the most mundane things exciting, like the patterns of cracked paint or the tiny constants in an artist’s style such as a particular color or brushstroke. Things no one else really cared about in the larger world made her face light up. Her passion would radiate out of her like a solar flare, occasionally burning her in the process when she overworked herself. Beautiful and yet destructive when it reached its breaking point.

She was the one he never wanted to break. But it seemed as if he already had. Their trust shattered as suddenly as that vase, the very thing that tied her to him.

For a moment, he felt anything was possible, as long as Sophia Cousland was present.

It was gone within a few minutes and he stared at his reflection. He had closed his eyes and only person came to his mind. He wasn’t sure what to do with the fire burning in his chest, extending ever outward, a fire longing to be tempered. It was a feeling he knew well, one he never thought he would feel again.

It was as if she had been in the room with him the entire time. But the lab was empty, except for him and Esteban, the dog curled up under the chair.

He ran his fingers through his hair. It was only natural for him to care, on a human level. But he cared for individuals few and far between. He had suspicions that perhaps he was a little more attached than he should be, thought of her more often than he should. He thought of her more than he did any of the other people who worked for him in any capacity. But this?

He took a deep breath to calm himself.

Vincent went over to the laptop, positioned on top of a chest of tiny drawers, the screen one of the few sources of light in the dim space. He pulled up the shared document of ideas on product design and typed: “Packaging and bottle, blue; specific hue to be chosen with Pantone”.

He closed his eyes and all he could see were her large blue eyes, staring back at him in the Catacombs, her heart as easy to read as a book.


	15. Chapter 15

Sophia stared at the painting Alexandre had propped up on the wall of her living room when he first arrived and frowned, but remained silent. She hadn’t heard from Vincent all weekend after the scene in his office and then there was radio silence for the following week as well.

That was fine. More than fine.

She caught herself half-wondering if she was even in the right to be upset, if she wasn’t just overreacting. The other half reminded her that if Vincent didn’t trust her, nothing was going to get done. She would spend more time justifying her actions than anything.

Sophia spent the weekend with Theo, only returning home when it was necessary. Being here reminded her of who’s hand she was in, who was responsible for her being here. The large dog stayed with her through the nights, as if sensing something was troubling her. She was a comfort, although also a reminder, but one Sophia could never shun; the dog meant too much to her. Life without the fluffy canine would be empty.

Without Vincent, it felt almost hollow.

Sophia stared at the canvas until she stopped seeing the wall behind it, saw nothing except the image, the colors, the expression behind each brushstroke. This was one she’d stripped herself after Alexandre brought it to her space at the storage facility, the very one he’d stolen from so long ago. They needed canvases and stretchers from the same time period as the piece being replaced in order to make it through forensic testing. He’d mumbled something about the artist being a had-been of the time and that it was a work no one would miss.

It still felt so wrong. She’d seen Catherine create masterpieces in a matter of a few days, her eyes fixed on the original as she sought keep the lighting exact, capture every detail as the artist had. The woman taught her how to properly strip paint without ruining the cracks the old paint left behind. It was a tedious process Sophia had hoped to never have to do herself one day.

A wish never to come true.

Sophia managed to bring the canvas to Leo’s studio, which also happened to be where he was living in Canal St. Martin. The payment he’d been provided upfront gave him enough to afford living without roommates as well as a large, almost bakery-grade oven, both of which were more than necessary. The less people around, the better, and the stove would make the painting process go quicker. Oil paint took years to truly dry and drying between each layer would speed up the process to just a few days, rather than several decades.

It was there she’d used acetone for a solvent and rectified petroleum for a restrainer, changing clothes when necessary to keep the canvas clean. One hand did the solvent, the other the restrainer, being careful to preserve the sizing and never reach the bare canvas, otherwise the peaks and fine cracks would be lost.

Her back  _still_ hurt.

Leo had done a stunning job, right down to ensuring the brushstrokes went in the same direction as they should. It wouldn’t be hard until an artist was known to left handed and he had to do everything backwards. But she’d studied both painting, the original and now the forgery with its added details, and it was difficult to tell one from the other stylistically.

“Rousseau’s words have never made more sense,” she whispered. “The good forgeries are still hanging on museum walls, which is right where all of these go. Almost half of all sales are likely forgeries too. Such a frail system.”

“Which is what makes it perfect for our purpose,” Alexandre replied. “You can store the original?”

“I have access to freeports, not many people ask questions. They know who I work for. And a lot of his properties aren’t technically under him but under a subsidiary or something, so there’s little chance of him being tied up in this.”

The fact that her mind had to even let the first syllable cross her neural networks bothered her. She hadn’t uttered his name in over a week; she hadn’t needed to.

Vincent still hadn’t accepted her deposit. It had been pending for over a week now.

Theo padded over, her nails tapping on the hardwood, before she sat beside Sophia and shoved her head under her hand. She always liked attention. The dog always liked attention, wary of strangers though she might be, but Sophia couldn’t help but notice Theo was always closer to her whenever someone was over.

“Speaking of your employer,” Alexandre went over and picked up the painting and began to wrap it in acid-free paper and then bubble wrap. “You never mentioned the possible double meaning to that riddle, did you?”

His tone set her back straight. His words were curious but there was an edge to them.

“No,” Sophia replied, slightly incredulous at the question.

“It’s best if you don’t, you know that, yes?”

She was getting very tired of men trying to explain things to her as if she was incapable of comprehending consequences. Vincent was on a list, whatever that meant, and the less he knew about certain things, the better. He wasn’t an ideal candidate for...whatever this organization was.

Almost two years and she still never knew their official title. Or rather, Alexandre's.

“Doesn’t he already know too much anyway?” Sophia watched him finish packing the painting. “He might be on a list or whatever, but he  _does_ have people everywhere.”

“Sophia, he cannot know. For the same reason you couldn’t be found that night.”

“Which also makes  _no_  sense if you consider that they have to know you have outside help.”

Alexandre turned, his back to her dining table where the painting was resting, ready to be taken when he left. His expression was cold, lips thin and brows set; the last time she saw him like this was the night they met. When she’s been handcuffed to a chair and beaten by a man she’d yet to lay eyes on again.

She hoped he’d been fired and not murdered, or that if he did still work with Alexandre, that she never saw him again. It was bad enough her ankle would never be the same, let alone the damages she’d endured that night.

“We do what we must to achieve our goal of protecting Paris. You’re useful and your connection goes both ways. I can keep an eye on the likes of Vincent Karm while benefiting from his interest in wanting an ear to the ground. Karm sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong far too much for it to ever be a good sign. When you first came to us, it meant it was only a matter of time before others found our message; I was willing to accept whatever help I could and I fought for that on the basis of Karm being at the  _top_ of that list of people not to bring into the fold.”

She knew that, deep down. Sophia knew that they were keeping tabs on everyone she was connected with and that this relationship was a two-way street. She moved towards a window, overlooking the populated street below. Living in the third arrondissement offered her close proximity to many of Paris’ galleries and a few museums but it also meant a stream of tourists who wanted more experiences off the beaten path.

They wanted the real Paris. A Paris she wasn’t sure even existed.

Occasionally, the people and relationships in her life felt real, genuine. Sometimes it felt as if she wasn’t constantly looking over her shoulder for the impending knife in her back but rather, she was enjoying life.

Now wasn’t the time to be reminded that everything she did was done for someone else, for the sake of a city that wasn’t even her legal home.

“You talk about him with such disdain,” Sophia said, “and yet you want to protect him?”

“He’s too high profile to be killed.”

Something in his voice made her think he wanted to say something else and explain further.

_Isn’t that what I wanted to do before Vincent involved himself? Protect him? Am I really that surprised?_ She thought.

Perhaps Alexandre saw the reasons she declined helping him put a painting, Catherine’s, into the show. Or perhaps still he read into whatever gossip flew about her and her employer when they left abruptly together. It didn’t matter, ultimately, why he suddenly cared if Vincent died.

“If he knows, he’ll have worked it out himself,” she said, turning back towards the living and dining area. Sophia tapped a pile of folders. “I’m going to read through these, some of them are repeats, but the people all fit the rough profile. Art history and sales are my strong suit, not psychological profiling.”

“Is there really that much difference?” Alexandre shot back, shrugging on his jacket. He slid the painting under his arm and headed for the door. “Take care of the original and let me know when it’s stored.”

Sophia nodded but gave a verbal agreement before locking her door behind him as he left. She pressed her back to it, the surface cool against her skin through her thin blouse. She slowly let herself slip to the floor, as if she was barring anyone else from entering despite the door being locked. Theo came over hesitantly and laid beside her, resting her head in Sophia’s lap.

At some point, she was going to have to get back to work. But today was not that day.

* * *

 

The City of Love office was nothing like Sophia expected it to be. Maybe she was too used to the sleek and clean offices of New York set in new skyscrapers, or the too-white spaces of Chelsea galleries. There were no cubicles, no dividing barriers, so everyone could see what the other was doing. In a world where projects were probably kept under lock and key so no one stole ideas from one another, that design choice made no sense.

Or maybe everyone trusted each other.

She’s never read the magazine and wasn’t about to start. It wasn’t her thing. She preferred her style tips from clients or other gallery girls, from watching other women at auctions when she attended. She preferred Juxtapose and art journals to culture columns.

Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t even be here.

“There you are!” A cheery voice rang out from behind her, to the right, and Sophia broke her gaze from the main work area to the woman strutting out of her corner office.

The door still beared her predecessor’s name.

Marion looked far more put together than she’d ever seen before, even when they first met. She’d ditched her jeans and casual top and messy hair for a red dress suit and a neat bun. Sophia found the red too bright for her and seemed to wash her out a bit.

Then again, she wasn’t one to talk at the moment; Sophia knew no matter what she wore, she looked tired and disgruntled, one hairline away from snapped patience.

Being here meant Marion could- _would_ -report to Vincent on her state of appearance and their conversations. But staying home was no longer a viable option. The world didn’t stop just because she was upset and angry. It didn’t hurt anymore, really. She’d rationalized that this just meant she’d let herself get too close and she’d have to work to re-establish her capabilities.

“Usually you’re at least in your bubble, I haven’t heard from you since the show. Haven’t you read the reviews?”

The blonde woman held up a magazine she was holding for emphasis and Sophia took it, glancing around rather than opening it. The desk marked Audrey Kingsley was conspicuously empty, devoid of any personal effects.  
  
Actually, most of the desks were empty.  
  
“It’s lunch time but we’re cutting the staff and anyone with loyalty to the founder. New blood,” Marion turned and surveyed the space her office was attached to, the computer screens dark. “Such an opportunity. I knew I made the right choice to work for Vincent. But you already know that feeling, don’t you?”   
  
Marion never had a particularly warm smile but this one made Sophia restrain a shiver. Usually it was the American who was the cold one. She was so delusional in her ideas that she was useful beyond being a pawn. Vincent didn’t care about his pawns. TJ was hiding from a bullet to the head and Marion was being shoved into a role to get her out of the way.   
  
_I did until last week,_  Sophia thought.  _How easy things change._  
  
“Come on, I know this amazing place a few blocks away,” Marion chirped, leading the pair out to the elevator bank.  
  
Sophia skimmed the magazine on the elevator ride down and found a review on  _Vanitas_. Praise, positive words about the show and her, about Vincent’s collection. Mentions of her article, of all things. That must have been in marketing copy she hadn’t seen; nothing she ever read mentioned her own writing. She should be smiling, she knew, but all she could do was keep her face blank and cradle the magazine to her chest when she was done. Her moment of pride came at a price.   
  
Approximately several hundreds of millions of dollars and witnessing death first hand, all for a single moment.  
  
“You have a really great shot in there too. A few, actually,” Marion chirped. “You missed some highlights and appearances, but with the way Vincent practically dragged you out of there, I’m sure-“  
  
Sophia caught Marion’s eyes in the mirror and the other woman raised her eyebrows suggestively. She felt her skin flush at the realization of what Marion meant, her composure ruined as her eyes grew wide in shock. She thought she’d hidden herself so well, kept everything under the surface.

Marion took the magazine from her arms and opened it, tapping a page with a lacquered nail.

A series of small photos was printed in the more gossipy part of the article. Her and Vincent. Vincent’s hand on her back, discreet looks, him leading her out of the gallery. They hadn’t hidden their faces, hadn’t attempted to hide from any possible cameras or journalists who could easily misconstrue the story.

Sophia’s stomach fell to her feet. If  _Marion_  saw this, Vincent probably had too.  
  
“Whatever you’re trying to imply-“ Sophia began.  
  
Marion cut her off by closing the magazine and handing it back. “I haven’t heard from him at all after that night, I thought the two of you might have skipped town together or something.”

“He’s probably just busy. He’s always been one to disconnect when he’s highly involved in a project,” Sophia shrugged slightly.

Lunch was filled with Marion’s chatter about magazine ideas and questions about key traits for employees. Sophia answered but her words felt automatic, without conscious thought. Her mind lingered on the fact that out of that entire show, out of all of the beautiful attendees and amazing works of art, someone had decided to focus and speculate on whether or not there was more to their partnership than it seemed.

“So I take it he hasn’t contacted you, either?” Marion said before taking a spoonful of chocolate mousse.

The other woman had cleared her plates for every course, much to Sophia’s amazement.

Sophia shrugged and took a sip of her cappuccino. “Like I said, he’s probably just busy. It’s not the first time he metaphorically drops off the face of the planet for a few days.”

“It’s been over a week. Since the exhibit, actually. I’m not the only one slightly concerned.”

“Then contact Eugene. I don’t know, Marion,” Sophia said firmly.

After a beat, Marion asked, “Did something...happen?”

_Like what, Marion?_   _I wouldn’t be here if anything had, now would I?_

“No, that’s just...Vincent. He gets so caught up in his ideas that everything else falls to the wayside a little. It’s nothing to worry about.”

The eyeroll Marion gave her said everything. Either she knew Sophia was lying and knew the truth or she didn’t believe Vincent would be that obsessive and disregard his original plans. Whichever it was, Sophia didn’t care.

“Look, can we drop this, please?”

“Only if you ditch those awful shoes,” Marion countered, eyes darting to the table to indicate Sophia’s feet.

“Never wear red again and maybe I will,” Sophia quipped, staring straight at the other woman as she took another sip of her drink.

They weren’t necessarily friends but Marion hadn’t done her any wrong, either. Not really. She was trying to make a life for herself like the rest of the city. Like her.

The blonde laughed, breaking the empty silence, and for the first time in days, Sophia did too.

* * *

 

Sophia returned to her apartment later that night and went about her usual routine, pulling out food for Theo without much thought. She shook the container of dry food, excited paws clamoring down the hall as Theodora came for her dinner. The white dog ate eagerly, knowing that within minutes of her finishing, they’d be back out for a walk.

Sophia ate a light supper at the counter, the silence only punctuated by Theo’s crunching.

Dogs were always so excited. Excited for food, for playtime, for seeing people. For the simple things in life.

Theo stopped and smelled every patch of flowers on their walk, as if she was afraid she would miss something.

When they returned, Sophia unclipped the large dog’s leash without looking up or seeing why the white fluffball was so excited. Theo dashed across the living area to a figure in black, staring out the very window she had days ago, hands behind his back. Sophia froze.

She’d forgotten Vincent could let himself in whenever he pleased. He owned the bloody building and he’d done it before.

He regarded Theo with a warmth she’d only seen him give Esteban and kneeled down to ease her excitement. Her tail thumped against the floor as he ran his fingers through her thick fur before he turned his attention to Sophia, who was clutching the leash so hard her knuckles were white.

“You’re frustrated,” he murmured, pointing to the pile of dossiers and other files on her table.

She’d neglected to put them away in the safe in her closet, like she was supposed to. Frustrated didn’t even cover it but she wasn’t sure how he meant that. Frustrated how? With him? With her entire role? With Paris? With Alexandre? She wanted to ask for clarification but thought better of it.

“I have nothing new, I haven’t gone through any more dossiers yet,” she said tersely.

She hated herself for keeping Alexandre’s promise, to keep mum on the flood warning so blatantly obvious. She hated herself more for not bothering to have really dressed today, the weather warmer than she enjoyed. A loose top that kept slipping off her shoulder and a pair of shorts that displayed too-pale legs and well-worn sandals.

She looked as if she was attempting to be a college student, not a thirty-year-old art adviser who dabbled in forgery.

The tension was tighter and more fragile than a piano wire. Theo was oblivious to it, simply happy to have another person she knew was safe.

But Vincent would have had her retrained to think that.

“Is that why I haven’t heard from you?” His eyes fell to the magazine from Marion on her table, his expression impassive as he continued on, taking in the personal touches she’d added since she first moved in.

The area rug, the art, the random knick-knacks. Photos of her friends and family, a few movies scattered under the TV console.

“It might have everything to do with the lack of supporting evidence for your accusation and the fact that you’ve left that deposit pending since last Friday. I have nothing else to say to you.”

_I don’t have anything to apologize for,_ Sophia thought bitterly.

The anger felt so random. She was fine, completely fine, as long as she never had to see him again.

But he was her boss. He was the reason she was in Paris. So of course she would have to see him.  She’d been an idiot for thinking otherwise.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you,” Vincent said, softer than she expected he was capable of, fingers falling to his tie for a moment. “I’m here to clear the misunderstanding.”

He gestured to a thick pile of papers on her table she’d missed, one that wasn’t there before, and then at a package, small but bulky, on the floor against the wall. The same wall she’d inspected Leo’s painting against days earlier. She narrowed her eyes at him but said nothing and let him continue.

“I  _did_  check the cameras. It was as you said.”

“I have no reason to lie to you,” Sophia shook her said slightly. If he’d done that to begin with, she wouldn’t have walked out, he wouldn’t have driven what felt like a dagger through her chest at the suggestion she could betray him.

_I have no reason to hurt you,_ she wanted to say instead.  _But I guess that’s as close to an apology that Vincent Karm is capable of._

“Is there any particular reason you’re sitting on my money rather than taking it?”

“I don’t want it.”

“That’s our agreement. How I pay you back.”

Vincent walked towards the dining table and tapped a finger on the stack of papers. Avoiding her words. “Some light reading, should you tire of profiles. Rescind the deposit and put it towards something else,  _anything_  else. If you accept, sign the last page. It’ll overwrite our previous agreement.”

His words were final but not unkind. If anything, he seemed insulted that she’d even suggest all he wanted from her was her debt. Didn’t Eugene tell her Vincent respected her, listened to her? That alone was rare. He valued her.

Whatever she felt for him, whatever she was  _afraid_  of accepting about those feelings that seemed to give more agony than happiness lately, he  _valued_ her for what she could do. What she thought. As a whole person.

“If I don’t?” She dared, looking him in the eye for the first time that evening.

“Then pack your things and go home,” he replied lowly, brow creased and frown firm on his face.  “Because I will not take your money. I need you here, I  _want_ you here, but if it’s on the condition of accepting your entire life savings, I couldn’t sleep knowing the position it put you in.”

_Since when do you care?_   _Since when has that ever mattered to you, the position you put people in?_

She watched him straighten his tie. She was reminded of that night, his hands over hers as she fixed the travesty Kingsley created. Fingers warm against her skin as she fixed the creamy silk so it was perfect.

And he thought  _she_ was frustrated. That was twice now, in the span of a few minutes, he’d done that.

“I’m having dinner at  _Le Paradis_ tomorrow evening at eight,” Vincent said, standing straighter and placing his hands back behind him. “I would like for you to join me, regardless of your decision, if you wish to. I’ll send Eugene.”

Sophia nodded, everything she’d worked so well to process and understanding rearing its head again and churning her stomach. Breathing felt impossible.

What was it he’d said to her that night? That he thought she knew his tastes by now? He’d looked hurt when he read her correctly, anticipated he would fall for Kingsley’s poor acting. The same expression crossed his face moments before.

Her.

He’d been talking about  _her_.

Did he know? Know how she’d hurt that night, watched as he played a game of cat and mouse and revelled in the attention of another woman? Had he seen her mask slip, watch her eyes betray her as she watched and waited?

She wanted to collapse in on herself. Or scream. Or cry.

But she couldn’t.

This was easy to misinterpret. All of this was just clarification, amendment. She wasn’t about to get ahead of herself.

Vincent gave Theo a final pet before he made his way to the door. He looked over his shoulder at her and all she could manage was to turn her head, her feet rooted to the spot as her mind worked to understand her own emotions, let alone the knowledge of his.

“Sleep well, Sophia.”

“Goodnight, Vincent.”

Her name felt  _right_ on his tongue. So right. The syllables fell just so, lilting slightly, pronounced so much softer than an American accent could make it sound. Sometimes the p-h was too harsh but from his lips, it felt as light as a butterfly’s wing.

She loved saying his name. She had known a few Vincents during her childhood, and even had a few clients with that name, but it didn’t feel the same as it did when it was directed at him. It filled her mouth, her tongue heavy with the weight of how much she enjoyed letting it pass her lips.

The door clicked shut and she was alone again, Theo staring at the door in slight confusion before trotting to her owner.

Sophia looked at the package he left behind and back at the table. She left the contract where he’d placed it and moved her files and other things, clearing a space on the surface. Sophia brought the flat package over and lifted it onto the table.

Her eyes fell on the card on top and she opened it.

Two words, in a handwriting she would know anywhere.

“I’m sorry.”

She ripped open the paper and her gasp died in her throat.

Catherine’s painting. The figure peeking out behind the trees like a child wanting to play hide and seek. The colors vivid and mesmerizing. Bright against the dark subject matter.

He’d given her the only thing she could ever remember her by. What he should have trusted her opinion on to be begin with; protect himself, don’t hang it.

She picked up the card again and ran her nail against the fold, flattening her further as she stared at the canvas. When the feeling in her chest became too much to bear, wet heat seared her cheeks, and she let her tears fall rather than wipe them away. There was no one around to see them, after all.

She carried the painting to her bedroom and set it on the dresser opposite her bed. Where she could always see it.

Sophia crawled under the covers, Theo joining her a moment later. She fell asleep holding the note, clutching it to her chest.

_I forgive you._


	16. Chapter 16

Sophia signed the last page with careful consideration, each stroke as precise as her dress choice.

Her current outfit wasn’t her first choice. Nor her second. She’s picked a green lace dress first, tried it on, picked out shoes, only to realize how  _obvious_  that was. She didn’t wear many colors, and owned little green as it was. Vincent would have picked up on it immediately. It was like Marion’s choice of red for her outfit. Flashy. Trying too hard.

Even her dress from the exhibition was subdued, despite the pale hue.

Black was her go-to for everything. So she tried a black dress with lace cutouts on her shoulders.  It was one of her favorites, a beautiful piece, something she’d...wear to work. It was good for a dinner too but...it just felt out of place. Cold.

She was tired of being cold.

She’d settled on a grey dress, with a tulle pleated skirt and lace up back. The bodice was sheer mesh and lace, with lace epaulettes on her shoulders. Long enough to be appropriate but...less professional. More personal. She tied a green ribbon around her waist rather than the yellow one that came with the dress and stuck with the black platform heels she originally picked. It was more playful than her usually choices, between the tulle and the laces in the back. But this one...felt right.

And now, she waited. Eugene said to be ready by seven-thirty. So she was ready by seven and left to let her mind wander.

If the paper in her hand was anything else, she’d scribble her name without a second glance. But this required hesitation, thought. After the ink dried, she folded the paper and placed it into an envelope for safe-keeping.

The only difference in the contract was the lack of clause about her debt. She would receive a commission on top of her salary of whatever Vincent sold. He’d refused her deposit and she checked her banking app that morning to find all of her money was returned to her account.

He put her in a precarious situation to begin with. She found it odd that when she was willing to do something that technically lined up with what she was supposed to do, she was stopped from doing it. She’d wanted to see her debt through, do what she was hired to do and pay back what was owed.

She knew by now it was Vincent’s way or not at all but that didn’t stop her from trying. She couldn’t go home. Not now. So she had no choice but to sign it.

Would be really have sent her home if she didn’t? Was she forever sealing off anything other than professionalism by doing this? Did she want more than this?

She did. Of course she did. She wouldn’t stay if she didn’t. She knew deep down she wanted to truly know the man who poached her from her New York life.

But she wasn’t about to assume what  _he_ wanted. He might not want anything substantial. Sophia wondered if she could live with that as she ran her nail along the fold of the envelope. It wouldn’t be the first time, of course, but she wasn’t a student anymore. She wanted more out of life, more than late night dalliances and emotional restraint, a constant fear of attachment.

It wouldn’t work anyway; she was already attached.

Part of her still wished he kissed her that night. Simply closed the distance and made everything a little clearer. He kept his intentions straightforward even if his words weren’t. A kiss crossed the boundary so clearly marked between them, even now.

_It’s just dinner_ , she kept telling herself. They’d had dinner before. Granted, it was always a working dinner but dinner nonetheless.

So why did the envelope in her hands feel like a bomb?

Sophia placed the envelope back on the table for a moment, staring at it. It was so much more than the ink and paper. It was trust. An almost clean slate. Without debt to keep her tethered, she could work easier and focus on keeping the paintings stored and their timeline intact.

She cast her eyes back on the dossier she was reading earlier. It was the largest, decades worth of knowledge condensed into a single portfolio.

Henri DeValois.

The man whose wife she watched die. The man under the impression Catherine either ran away or died several years ago. Self-funded politician who tried to do right by the people. A Paris for Parisians, he kept pressing. He constantly had to fight off the bigots and the xenophobes and was always explaining he meant social class, not nationality. Despite the need for a new message, he was amassing a following who wanted a more equal Paris, one that wasn’t just a tourist destination or where the rich came to play for fashion season.

Her stomach churned as she skimmed it, her right hand falling to her left to play with a tiny band she wore. She hated politicians. It was no wonder she found herself drawn to Catherine; they both had similar lives at one point. Or rather, Sophia almost did.

DeValois wouldn’t be stupid enough to sabotage himself by destroying the city. He wouldn’t dedicate himself to Paris if he thought the city took his wife away from him. No one could put themselves through that much pain every day.

Unless he was going to pull a stunt by starting a disaster only to be the one who knew how to stop it. Very cavalier, and for an ambitious, older politician looking for an edge in the election in a few years time, very possible. It was no secret, at least to her, that Henri was part of the same inner circle Alexandre was. Which meant he  _knew_ about the floodgates.

But would he do that to a city he seemed to love like a parent loved a child? Motive. He didn’t seem to have the obvious motive. There was little to no mention of Catherine at all, ever. But his constant repositioning politically wasn’t beneficial to him either.

Sophia’s phone vibrated on the table once and she picked it up to find a text not from Eugene, but Vincent. She pursed her lips and then went to the window, where she spotted a black car she didn’t recognize, its owner standing at her building’s stoop. It was a Mercedes (did he  _own_  any other brand, she wondered), but it wasn’t the Maybach she was used to seeing. Two doors, rather than four, and she could make out the S and numbers on the back.

He said he would send Eugene. So what was he doing here himself? She shouldn’t be so surprised, she told herself, he did what he wanted. But he’d never given any indication he could drive or enjoyed doing it himself.

Sophia swallowed the lump in her throat and willed her heart not to beat out of her chest. She gathered her things, placed the envelope in her tiny purse, and went downstairs.

_Stop it. Stop being nervous. It’s_ just  _dinner. He isn’t a stranger_.

When she got halfway down the stairs, she wondered if she was too overdressed. That maybe the black dress would have been better. Her dress was  _fine_ ,  _more than_ , in fact, and she needed to stop second guessing herself.

She needed to stop being so damn guarded all the damn time, to stop being afraid of getting hurt.

There was something different about Vincent’s expression when he saw her, but she couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t the usual appraising look he tended to give anyone who ever interacted with him, assessing whether they’d be useful or even remotely good at what they did. Hunger flickered in his eyes for a moment before being replaced with an appreciation she knew well. He looked as though he was gazing at any one of his numerous artworks, taking in every detail in admiration of the artist’s painstaking work.

There was no pedestal to be placed upon, no judgement, at least not explicitly.

He couldn’t help but notice that he’d swapped his usual gold cufflinks for silver ones, square rather than round. He always wore the gold ones as far as she remembered.

_Is that tie new?_ She wondered, realizing that, although black, it didn’t resemble the usual almost-cravat-style he usually went with.

His waistcoat was black rather than his usual forest green. If she had any doubts about whether this dinner was  _just_ business, they vanished when she realized his usual chartreuse pocket square was also absent, replaced by an aquamarine one.

“I didn’t know you drove,” Sophia said, her gaze flitting to the car and then back to the man in front of her.

“Even Eugene needs a respite sometimes,” Vincent replied.

Sophia was going to ask but thought better of it. If the past week and a half taught her anything, it was that Vincent did what he wanted, even if it meant changing plans.

“Will your ankle be okay?” Vincent looked pointed at her feet.

It still bothered her but she’d been careful over the past week and a half since she’d had it examined. It was stiff at times but she’d gone for physical therapy a few days after the swelling died down. She’d picked the platforms specifically for the extra support a stiletto wouldn’t provide. Part of her was touched that he asked; she wasn’t entirely surprised by the gesture. It was his business to know if she’d be able to walk, after all.

“I have flats with me,” Sophia held up her tiny purse for emphasis, where she’d also stashed a pair of roll-up flats. “Unless we’re going to the Catacombs for dinner?”

“No, not what I had in mind.”

Vincent’s lips quirked up at her words, a rare expression. His smiles were always amused but they never reached his eyes in the same way. He looked younger when he smiled.

Sophia settled into the passenger seat, fussing with her skirt for a moment. The leather felt the same as the Maybach and had the same diamond pattern stitched into it. Vincent got in beside her and soon they were weaving through Parisian traffic, the car muffling the sounds of the bustling city around them.

“I  _did_ plan for walk after dinner but not in quite as treacherous a location. Tonight is an extension of my apology. I know very little about you other than your penchant for being overly responsible and stubborn and I would like to rectify that,” Vincent said, his eyes focused on the road.

She ran the chain of her small shoulder bag through her fingers for something to do with her hands. It was different to be in the front of the car, the two of them the only ones in the vehicle. Still separated by a center console. “Is this dinner or an interrogation?” she asked, somewhere between dubious and playful. “If so, good luck catching me off-guard. Americans do both; it’s called Thanksgiving.”

She couldn’t help but enjoy Vincent’s low laugh at her horrible joke, despite it being mostly true. If he had dinner and twenty questions in mind, she’d play, but only if she wasn’t the only one answering.

“You’d know if you were being interrogated, all things considered,” he said, referencing her first encounter with Catherine and Alexandre. “I know less about you than you know about me. I slighted you because I was prideful, among other things. I would like to...make amends for not trusting you.”

“So just dinner, then.”

She wanted to kick herself. She almost sounded disappointed. They came to a stoplight and Vincent was so light on the brake that she didn’t feel it at all. In any of the cars she’d ever been in, she’d always felt the bumps in the road or heard the noise of the tires or the other cars passing by.

There was a mischievous glimmer in Vincent’s eye as he considered his next words, the red light bright across his features. He shifted in his seat slightly, as though he hadn’t expected her to delve into his intentions. He turned his head to look at her as he said, “It’s dinner with fine company, although I’ve heard that’s called a date.”

“ _Is_ this a date?” Sophia quipped, meeting his eye.

“Do you want it to be?”

_Yes_. Sophia thought.  _I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel anything..._

The light turned green and they continued on their way through the third arrondissement and onto the first. They passed through Place de la Concorde. Le Paradis was perched atop one of Paris’ most luxurious hotels and had the best view of the cityscape this side of the Seine, close to the Arc de Triomphe. Sophia tried and failed to forget how close Vincent’s favorite eatery was to where she lived. On a good day, she could walk here.

“The last date I was on ended in me throwing my drink, if I’m entirely honest, so the decision rests with you,” she replied, watching Vincent’s hands on the steering wheel. He had long fingers and she wondered briefly if he’d ever played piano or another stringed instrument. Who else he’d touched with them. His hand had felt as if it belonged on her back weeks ago and she couldn’t help but wonder if she would still feel the same now when things between them were...different.

Sophia remembered that date, the evening she decided to never attempt to date within a political staffer pool ever again. She should have known better, but still. He had been more than crass, blaming her for the position she was in. That was four years ago, when she’d gone back to grad school to try and figure out what to do after returning her ring.

Vincent adjusted his hold on the steering wheel, his grip loosening ever so slightly. The car seemed to almost drive itself, requiring little effort from him. It looked natural for him, being in the driver’s seat. She knew he preferred to be driven mostly to free up time so he could get to other things. He knew who to give what to, something she’d seen when she was settling in; the closest person he had to a personal assistant was Eugene, but even he didn’t maintain Vincent’s schedule. He did as he pleased and yet managed to meet all of his responsibilities in a timely fashion.

_He keeps the things and people he values most closest to him. No matter what, he finds a way to prioritize them..._

“Luckily for you, I have a very good drycleaner,” he said at last. “If I’m wrong in thinking there’s anything more than professional interest, tell me and we’ll never speak of this again.”

Sophia gave a small smile. “You aren’t wrong but you don’t know if I’m staying,” she murmured, her eyes following the length of his arm to his face again as they stopped at another intersection, the last one before  _Le Paradis_.

He turned his head to return her gaze, his peridot eyes burning right into the core of her being. She’d never forgotten how intense his looks could be, but for a moment, she thought her heart might stop.

“I think you’ll find that’s irrelevant, since I invited you regardless. I don’t play games with people I like, Sophia.”

There was more to that sentence. She knew there was. But he looked away first and silence swallowed the remainder of whatever he was going to say; they had arrived at  _Le Paradis_.


	17. Chapter 17

Dinner went as she’d expected it to.  Despite all of the time she’d spent alone with him before, the tension from their car ride followed them inside.  It was so thick she had to occasionally remind herself to breathe. She had no reason to be this anxious.

Yes, she did, she reminded herself.  She wanted it to go well. He was letting her in a little further because she’d asked for it, proven herself to be worthy of it.  If Eugene’s words that night  _ were  _ true, Vincent had a poor way of initially showing it between leaving her out of a conversation and accusing her of disloyal actions.  If there was to be anything at all built from the structure of their professional understanding of one another, amends had to be made and the problem addressed head-on.

Vincent asked about her parents, something she hadn’t been prepared to hear him ask.  She’d replied that her father refused to retire and that her mother was an artist but made her living as a curator before taking her pension early.  

“I learned from both of them.  My dad took me to his job sites and my mom took me to museums and galleries,” she’d said, sipping the wine he’d chosen carefully,

“So your career was a natural choice?”

Sophia raised an eyebrow, offered a sardonic smile and said, “On paper, yes.”

Vincent remained silent and merely leaned back in his seat after he poured himself more wine.  He was patient and she knew from experience that the slight cock of his head meant he was interested.  

“And in reality?”  He’d asked.

“I was naive and ready to give up my life plans for being a politician’s wife.”

The waiter came over and refilled her water glass, which she happily switched to.  The wine was lovely but she wanted the cold comfort of ice water if she was going into this territory.  It grounded her as she ran her thumb up and down the stem of the glass before looking at Vincent again.

His eyebrows rose slightly as he asked,  “You were engaged?”

Well, at least he was shocked at  _ that  _ and not the part about politics.  

“For about three years.  I broke it off when I was twenty-five.  There was a small...scandal, for lack of a better word.  The digital cleanup was a nightmare, more for his benefit than mine.  It’ll haunt him for the rest of his career but that’s not my problem.”

She hadn’t wanted to think about it but that night in the Catacombs reminded her of that emotional scar.  Of seeing Richard with someone else, hearing the person she cared about had discarded her almost entirely except for public events.  It hurt because she knew it too well. 

But it seemed outlandish for her to feel so strongly about Vincent’s actions when she’d never freely admitted her feelings to herself, let alone to Vincent.  She told herself she’d no right to be upset, that if he’d wanted Audrey Kingsley, then she’d deal with it. If she was to betray herself, so be it.

But he’d rejected the journalist and told Sophia he had everyone he wanted.  He’d never wanted Kinglsey to join him, nor did he expect her to. He hadn’t been playing with Sophia at all but she’d ended up ensnared anyway, momentarily.

Sophia looked away, unable to handle Vincent’s gaze and knowing full well where his mind was going.  It hadn’t just been jealousy he’d quelled that night but a fear and pain she’d never wanted to feel again.  Betrayal from Vincent never once crossed her mind in her time with him, although he often asked those he liked the most to do it to curry favor.  She was doing illicit and illegal things while earning money from him; he couldn’t betray her without putting his own name on the line. From what she could garner about him on a personal level, beyond his tests, he valued loyalty and prided himself on keeping his word and commitments.  Those parts alone made for a situation very different than her last.

“I returned the ring and went back to New York,” she said, willing herself to tear her eyes from the cityscape and look at him again.  “Arthur was willing to hire me while I finished my graduate program. The article you read was the culmination of a lot of personal frustration and many attempts to re-orientate myself.  I lost sight of a lot of what I actually loved doing and it took years to get it back. I learned a lot from my time being next to a politician, it’s...the same song and dance, really. I just happen to enjoy it far more.”

She shifted the conversation onto him, tired of talking about herself.  “Your turn. What about your parents? How did you decide to go into media?”

It stunned her a little that they’d never had these conversations.  In almost two years of working together, she knew little about his life outside of work, or what motivated him to choose the career he did.  Or about any friends or family. He never mentioned his family before and it hurt a little to hear him say he wasn’t really in touch with his parents.  There were circumstances, he said, but he called them on holidays and showed his face when he was asked to.

“Does it have anything to do with the story you mentioned when Catherine was…”

“In part.  I...lost someone important to me.  A part of me died that night with him.”

He didn’t explain further but a ghost of what she’d seen that night crossed his face again momentarily.  He looked almost lost for a second, his right hand leaving the stem of his glass long enough to move the signet ring on his left hand to his thumb.  He hadn’t done that in a while, at least not in her presence. He looked at her again, as if waiting for something, their gazes not breaking even as the waiter set their meals in front of them.  

Had he been a friend, a family member, perhaps even a lover?  When he was ready, he’d make that decision to tell her what happened.  He’d respected her boundaries, it was the least she could do in return.

Their conversation switched to lighter topics, thankfully.  It felt better to smile and actually talk about things rather than bury her head in information.  Relieving to discuss art outside of the context of Vincent’s collection or coded forgeries. Anything that didn’t, for once, involve Heloise, or the Essence.  No work. Films, plays, TV shows, strange art exhibits and auction house lots.

Vincent looked horrified when she said she’d never actually gone to the opera and thus couldn’t offer any insight.

“Phantom of the Opera doesn’t count, I suppose?” She teased.  “Not even in part?”

He almost dropped his fork at  _ that _ .

“It most certainly does  _ not _ .  Broadway productions are not the same,” Vincent’s eyes widened as his brow relaxed, and she watched the passion she’d seen very few times snake its way across his features.  It made his lips curl into a smile and his voice almost quiver and she wished she saw more of this Vincent. It was the other side of his obsessive behavior, the brighter side.  “There’s something ethereally beautiful about opera that regular theatre can’t capture, that the amalgamation of singing, dancing, and acting cannot entirely match. Emotion is all in the voice, in subtle body language changes that don’t hinder a singer’s breathing.  Opera cannot be translated without losing the cadence and the particular meaning of the words. Everything relies on how well the music and the singer work in tandem to create an emotional response from the audience…”

Sophia rested her elbows on the table, dangling her fork between her thumb and forefingers.  He loved to hear himself talk but in that moment, it seemed as though he’d forgotten all about himself.  He was lost in passion that, for once in several months, made his entire being almost glow out of sheer enjoyment rather than ravenous greed.

Vincent blinked and then cleared his throat, his excitement tempered again.  But the glimmer never entirely faded from his eyes and the smile never truly left his lips.  Sophia considered that in itself a success.

They’d left the restaurant some time later but she thought it was odd they were getting back into the car when Vincent had mentioned a walk earlier.  The Tuileries and Place  Vendôme weren’t far, after all.   Sophia tried to keep her face impassive when he asked her to switch shoes before they’d even left the curb.

Now, as they drove away from the river again and passed through an archway, she understood why.

She  _ hadn’t _ expected the sight in front of her to be their destination.  Sophia’s wide eyes took in the glass pyramid and the grand palace behind it.  Granted, it was no longer a palace; it now housed one of the world’s most prestige art collections.  She’d passed by every now and again, when she’d gone to the nearby café in the Tuileries for coffee, but she could never bring herself to enter.  And Vincent hadn’t included it in his initial tour of the city. As important as the museum was, she just…didn’t feel like bothering. The museum was always hemorrhaging tourists and she’d spend the day moving in a sea of people rather than actually seeing the artwork.  Which was the whole point of going. 

Crowds were one of the reasons she’d decided to go into private sales rather than museum work.  Too many people in one space. And now, it would feel hypocritical in every way. She’d learned to play by the rules and now she played between them.

At night, it was deserted, except for the few tourists lingering about.  It felt almost intrusive to marvel at the building this late.

The parking garage was erie, desolate.  A few cars were still here and likely belonged to the security guards working the graveyard shift.  

She followed Vincent through the glass doors and passed the inverted pyramid that mirrored the larger one on the surface, not missing the badge he showed the security guard who met them at the entrance.  Her eyes roamed the space as they walked, all white and bright and sharp. It was one of the most striking entryways she ever saw, modern leading into old. Sophia could appreciate the metaphor. There were those who didn’t like the pyramid and considered it a scar on Paris.  It was clearly still not finished though, if all of the plastic and scaffolding was anything to go by. Plaster dust was piled in places, flood lights helping a small crew of workers finish a section of flooring.

The guard spoke to Vincent and gave crisp, clear instructions.  He then gestured towards a hallway and gave a firm warning she couldn’t quite translate.  Vincent adjusted his tie as he replied and Sophia couldn’t help but guess it was something about being on their best behavior.

“We’re to meet our escort down the corridor,” he translated for her when the guard was out of earshot as they began walking in the direction they were pointed.  Vincent gestured around the space. “They’ve been renovating for the past year, the original layout wasn’t designed to accommodate the 8 million visitors the museum now gets.”

Sophia was silent as she took everything in, not caring if he caught her craning her neck to catch a glimpse of a detail as they went along.  The space opened up as they reached the base of the larger pyramid, where most of the work was being done. Their guide met them at the center of the reception hall and exchanged pleasantries before leading them through the lower levels of the Denon wing.

Once they reached the Greek and Roman sculptures, their escort stepped aside and shadowed them from a few meters away.  Sophia stood still and looked up, taking in the complex capitals on the pillars and the details in the arches and buttresses.  None of her trips to the Met compared to this, she realized. There was something so...intimate about the lower ceiling and reduced lighting.  She could imagine this being a private gallery for a royal family.

“There’s so much porphyry,” she murmured when they reached a sculpture of a woman between two large purple pillars.  They’d passed several pieces with the material already.

The figure’s gown and shawl were carved from the same material as the pillars, while her head, hands, and base were traditional white marble.  In real life, she may or may not have owned garments of a similar color made of from a sea snail that was incredibly rare. The sculpture was crowned, a hint much less subtle than the deep, rich hues of the material she was made of for those who wouldn’t know the color code; she was royalty.

Before her was a basin, perhaps a tub or even a tomb, carved of the same imperial stone.  

They wove their way around the statues, passing through gallery after gallery.  At some point, she’s taken his arm, wishing all the while it was his hand she was able to touch and feel his fingers between hers.  Palm against palm. She would settle for feeling the warmth radiating from underneath his sleeve, never once feeling as though she wasn’t at liberty to let go.  

It was different than their moments at Orsay, when he had been peacocking and boasting, prideful of his exhibit.  Except for the touch from ushering her along with him, when she’d felt the full heat of his touch against her skin, so searing she wondered if her dress would burn.

Here, he was showing her a crown jewel of Paris, his pride less personal but still grandiose.  

He didn’t really know any other way to be.

Sophia found herself resting her head against Vincent’s upper arm as he spoke, her cheek pressed against the soft material of his jacket.  

“Is your ankle alright?”

“It’s fine,” she extended her leg a little higher when she stepped and flexed the joint to demonstrate.  “I just…”

When she realized what she was doing, she went to right herself and pulled away.

“I don’t mind,” he murmured.

Sophia settled back against him, their steps falling into sync.  Vincent told her of his first visit here, as a child, and how frightened he’d been seeing Hercules fighting Cerberus, one of the demigod’s many labors.  They came to the statue and Sophia understood what he meant; a child would clearly be able to see the rage and murderous intent on Hercule’s face from the right angle.  

She couldn’t help but wonder if that was the expression Megara saw before she was killed by her own husband.

They couldn’t see everything, Sophia well knew.  It would take several more trips over the course of years for her to know the museum’s layout by heart.  She let Vincent create their path but marvelled at the pieces and the architecture at every turn. Without crowds, it was possible to  _ stop  _ and understand the space.

As they passed by a set of decorative crests, she said, “I used to try and decipher these as a kid.  My family has a crest, my grandmother was always very proud of that. Laurels with a dragon.”

She recounted the tale she knew by heart, of her ancestor bringing peace to her kingdom to prevent civil war and supposedly fighting a dragon in the process.

“My mother actually painted a portrait of her after the final meeting of other lords and gifted it to my grandmother,” She said, tearing her eyes away from a sculpture to look up at him only to find Vincent watching and listening intently.  “She used to love telling the story to me and my cousins. I don’t think it’s seen daylight in years, though; last I knew it was in the attic with a sheet over it since she passed.”

They wandered, Sophia’s eyes never staying still on something for long.  She pulled away and stopped in the middle of the corridor on their way to the opposite wing, looking up and simply marveling at how this had once been a home.  How many hours and days and years had gone in to making this building as extravagant as it was. 

This was the feeling she’d wanted from a city like Paris.  Wonder. Amazement. Awe. This pressure in her chest from seeing what human minds and hands could do with only material and a vision and years of skill.  History. Legacy. How many people had walked these halls and only seen the Mona Lisa, just to say they’d seen it? Who had skipped everything else, all because it’s legacy didn’t involve a theft?

Sophia brought her gaze back down and found Vincent on the threshold of the next gallery, watching her.  His eyes were gentle, just watching, and at first she thought he was looking at a sculpture tucked in a corner.  It wasn’t until she approached and his gaze followed her instead that she realized it was her he’d been so fascinated with.  It was an endearing look for him, similar to the one she’d seen earlier when she came downstairs. 

“What?” She asked, coming back to his side.

“You look beautiful.  Especially when you’re taking everything in.  You just….light up.”

She looked away, feeling her face heat up.  Instinctively, she felt herself withdraw, felt her back straighten and her arms tense, the same as she’d felt when they had first met in New York.  Sophia had forgotten herself, her passion getting the better of her with a complete stranger. 

The stranger now in front of her.

The man she was spending her evening with.  Their time together, for once, felt like a weight off of her shoulders.  No work, no obligation, just dinner and conversation. Laughing. She had made Vincent freaking Karm  _ laugh _ .  And here she was, pulling away because he  _ saw _ her and understood her.

She knew him, knew what he was capable of.  The fear he could strike in anyone’s heart with the right bit of information and the right kind of pressure.  But she wasn’t scared of him. And he knew that, too.

The emotions she’d begun to felt so very long ago scared her and she kept hoping that if she pretended, they’d go away.  But all they’d truly done was simmer under her skin.

He frowned and she felt his hand on her cheek, turning her face towards him as he had the night she’d awoken to find her nightmare of Catherine’s death was real.  Except there was coldness in his eyes, nothing harsh and driving and demanding. 

She couldn’t bring herself to pull away.  She didn’t want to.

“Why do you hide that?  That passion that radiates like the sun?  What are you afraid of?” Vincent asked.

She had so many answers to those questions and yet all of them died in her throat.  That she was afraid to lose what she had worked so hard to feel again. That she was scared to be hurt.  Scared to be belittled. It all came down to fear. 

She didn’t want another situation like...

“I’ve had it ripped from me before,” she whispered.  “And I worked too hard to get it back.”

Her answer didn’t satisfy him in the least but he said nothing as he fixed her hair and pulled his hand away, almost hesitantly.  She looped her arm through his again, her posture still rigid.

“Have you ever been engaged?”  Sophia asked, her eyes falling on a painting as they walked one of the grand galleries.  “Built up a life with someone, intertwined your entire existence with theirs?”

“Almost,” his answer was so low she almost missed it.

“He always supported me, let me share what I liked, until years later, my opinion didn’t matter anymore.  There were little things. Belittling my reading, or my research, or anything I enjoyed that he once shared with me.  I’d tell him to stop only for him to say I was being ridiculous. All that  _ did  _ matter was that I smile, look pretty, and try not to make him look stupid among his coworkers.  I was supposed to be planning a wedding, not continuing the work I’d left behind. We’d host dinner parties and I’d be the one stuck handling all of the details.  I felt less like a partner and more like a servant. So I hid. I hid my love for beautiful paintings, stopped discussing things, I put away my books…”

“Because you loved him.”

“Because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do.  I knew I mattered but I just thought I...mattered a little less.  He was working for the betterment of the country, I was...studying the works of dead people who could give no answers.  He’d sleep in his office and then eventually he’d just...stop coming home except to shower and change.”

They stopped in front of a painting unrelated to their conversation.

“By then, I’d become everything I never wanted to be.  My purpose revolved around him and only him and that was how he wanted it.  I had nothing of my own anymore and I had willingly given it away.”

Sophia felt numb whenever she told the full story.  It was like sticking her hand in ice and leaving it there, searching for the reason she used to rationalize her own behavior.

“I  _ want  _ to be able to show it but it’s still hard sometimes. It took years for me to be okay with becoming enthusiastic at work, let alone anywhere else.  I had to relearn that it was normal to express and show what I like, criticism be damned. Relearn to live for myself and myself alone.”

Her hands fell to the chain of her purse, running the cool metal under her thumb.

“That’s why I pushed back,” she whispered, eyes scanning the canvas, afraid to look away lest she see pity in his eyes.  “Why I said no but involved myself anyway. It had to be on my terms and for my reasons.”

They moved along until they reached another painting, this time one Vincent stopped to look at.   He was silent, peridot eyes roaming the painting and then looking back at the didactic, as if he was in disagreement about the analysis of the painting.

“What drove you to break it off?”  Vincent finally asked, not taking his eyes off the didactic text to the right of the painting.

“At a charity dinner, I found him kissing one of his fellow staffers, only to discover they’d been having an affair for the better part of a year and a half.  I dumped my ring into his champagne before dinner and left the room. I’d gotten to the hotel lobby before he actually noticed I was gone.”

She said it with such nonchalance, as if she was talking about the weather.  She watched his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, her words registering in his mind.  Sophia needed him to speak. To say anything. Her heart had long since grown heavy in her chest and her lungs felt like they were refusing to work anymore.  

“It always feels better to hide our pain.  But eventually, the mask becomes too much to bear and the lies feel like lead, heavy and poisonous.  We start to corrode as it bleeds into everything else,” Vincent said, finally turning his gaze back onto her, turning in such a way that her hold on his arm slipped to the cuff of his jacket to allow for the movement.  “You don’t need to hide, Sophia. Not with me,  _ ma chérie _ .”

“I don’t want to,” Sophia replied, biting her lip for a moment before adding.  “Not anymore.”

She felt warm fingers intertwine with hers as they continued their turn about the room.  This was their last room before their escort would lead them out of the museum the way they came, as they’d reached the limit of their security access and time.  She liked the feeling of his hand in hers, steady and surprisingly soft, given how callous and cruel he could be at times. Occasionally, his thumb would graze her knuckles as they went and her heart fluttered.

She never wanted that feeling to stop.

* * *

 

Before she knew it, they were standing on her doorstep again, the Mercedes conspicuous on the quiet street.  She’d changed her flats for her heels again, not wanting to carry them inside. She needed her hands free.

“Thank you,” she said as she turned to face him, her hand finding his without much difficulty.  It felt natural now, as if she knew no other way. She came to his chin with her heels and she recalled how she’d once felt dwarfed by him when he’d first made his offer to her in New York.  “When you said a walk, I hadn’t anticipated…”

“I wanted you to enjoy the things you haven’t been able to,” Vincent replied.

She squeezed his hand and saw the smile from earlier cross his lips again, his eyes bright.  Hopeful, perhaps a little disbelieving. It disappeared slightly as she asked the question she’d wanted to since she came home the previous night and found him in her apartment.  She let go of his hand to place both on the chain of her bag.

“What will you do?  With the Essence?”

“Perfume.  The marketing can be straightforward considering most expect only metaphor.  It’s still only a prototype,” he murmured. “The scent has to be finalized.”

“Orange blossoms and deceit?”  Sophia teased.

“Raspberry, rose, and gardenia,” Vincent replied.  “It’s the undertone that’s being troublesome. The balance of musk and sandalwood.”

_ That would smell good, actually.  Sweetness turning to something more sensual... _ Sophia thought.

A deep part of her didn’t like it, the fact that he would be selling it to consumers who were none the wiser.  It was essentially a drug that didn’t allow for consent, considering it impaired whoever consumed it. It made someone easy to take advantage of.  But so did a lot of other drugs and legal substances. 

It was probably one of the oldest, next to alcohol.  Small doses, controlled. People would be outright told what the perfume could do...it was an informed decision to use the product.

And bliss was so much better than agony, wasn’t it?  In the wake of what could come to Paris?

Sophia opened her purse and pulled out the envelope she’d been carrying all night.  She stared at it for a second longer than she should have.

“It’s signed,” she said as she held it out to Vincent.  “Although I think you expected that.”

“I didn’t, actually.  Consider me...pleasantly surprised.  Which is hard to do.”

“I finish what I start,” Sophia said simply, shrugging her shoulders slightly.

“I know.”

She watched him tuck the envelope away in his inside pocket.  It would be smart for her to say goodnight, turn away, and head inside, she knew.  But she couldn’t bring herself to pull away, to step back from him. Other than the car rides and dinner, they’d spent most of the evening close to one another, never entirely separating.  Even if she tried, she felt as though she would be pulled right back, the very air between them magnetic. Her heart couldn’t decide on a rhythm and she couldn’t figure out what was more alluring, his eyes or his voice or how well her hands seemed to fit in his.

The sensation was so light she would have thought she’d dreamed feeling his lips against hers.  Their lips met again, more sure but just as a careful. There was a thin veil of tenderness, of caution that, once pierced, would be shattered forever.  Neither willing to ask for what the other might not be ready to give.

Vincent pulled away first, the space between them razor thin.  

More.  She wanted,  _ needed _ , more.  

“Vincent…” Sophia whispered, her plea silently hanging, the final autumn leaf waiting for a strong wind to take it.  Her hand found his tie, the other resting against his chest as she pulled him to her, her kiss certain now.

She was done with fear keeping her from what she wanted.  She wanted the man in front of her, whatever that entailed.  Come what may, she would stay at his side. If he would have her.

She felt a hand at her waist and the other cup her face, as if trying to ensure this wasn’t, in fact, a dream.  Sophia gave a slightly startled gasp as Vincent deepened the kiss after grazing his teeth over her bottom lip. She had been kissed dozens of times, but never like this.  It wasn’t hesitant or forceful, merely sudden, filling the space between them with everything he could never bring himself to say. Sophia gave in and met his passion equally, and for a moment, relished the warmth underneath her fingers, the distance between them non-existent.

He smelled slightly woodsy.  She’d never realized that before.  Lemon that gave way to cedar, and a hint of leather.  

He pulled away again, both of them breathless.  His thumb traced her swollen lip for a moment and he seemed as though he was memorizing every part of this moment, lost in thought until he spoke again.

“Musk and then sandalwood,” he whispered, almost to himself.  “That’s what it needs.”

And then her mind was clouded again with how good his lips felt against hers, how she could still taste the slight hint of chocolate and coffee from dessert as his tongue brushed hers.  

Just as quickly as it began, it was over, her lips tingling with the echoes of their kiss.  Sophia felt a shiver run down her spine and she couldn’t help but laugh softly. It was chilly outside, especially considering the time, but something else drove the tremble through her body.  How long had it been since she’d let herself  _ feel  _ all of this?  The anticipation, the excitement?  

“I’m glad you’re staying,” he said lowly, his hand coming up to trace a finger along her jaw before his thumb ghosted over her bottom lip again.  

“So am I,” she whispered, her gaze falling on his lips before she tilted her head up to met his eyes.

This couldn’t go any further.  Not tonight. As much as she wished otherwise.  They’d already crossed too many lines tonight and her head was still spinning.

He chuckled lowly and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth and then another just below her ear, his breath tickling her.  “Definitely musk first,” he murmured, his lips against her skin causing another shiver down her spine. 

_ He’s using  _ me  _ for the perfume? _

Her addled mind cleared slightly and she felt her face heat up at the thought. __ She looked at him with wide eyes when he pulled away, her hands still resting against his chest.  

“Yes?” He teased, his eyebrows arching slightly.  He was far too amused that she was only now putting the pieces together.

“Me?”  She managed to say, not trusting her voice entirely.

Vincent chuckled again, a deep sound she could get used to hearing, one she  _ felt  _ beneath her fingers as it ran through his chest.  “You have no idea how alluring you really are, do you?”

His forwardness only made her grow warmer.  If she focused, she could feel the hard beat of his heart, matching hers.  Quick and pounding.

“ I can’t smell roses or raspberries and  _ not  _ think of you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.   “You should get inside,  _ ma chérie _ .  I’ve kept you long enough for tonight, I think.”

_ I  _ should _ but that doesn’t mean I  _ want  _ to,  _ Sophia thought.

She pulled away to dig her keys out of her bag and unlocked the building’s door with unsteady hands.  He’d shattered the remains of her resolve, the thin wall she hid behind for so long. As she twisted the key in the lock, she felt Vincent’s breath at the curve of her neck before he whispered, “ _Fais de beaux rêves, ma chérie_.”

_ They will be sweet dreams indeed… _

She undressed when she got back upstairs, remembering to hang her dress up before she laid in bed, her lips still tingling with the memory of their kiss.


	18. Chapter 18

Weeks passed in a haze.  A haze that had her smiling like she was back in college and unable to focus on much else.  Her existence felt light. Occasionally, she caught herself wondering if this was real every time their hands met.  Had she truly forgotten what this was like? How utterly blissful every moment spent in another’s presence could be?  How exciting her racing pulse could be, how merely being beside someone could make her feel grounded and whole?

She didn’t care about the Essence, about his plans, about Audrey Kingsley and her band of friends.  None of it mattered.

 _And it won’t.  It’s this or renaming Paris to the City of Floods._  She caught herself thinking one night.

It was the closing show of _Faust_ , and Vincent was obligated to attend.  She spent most of the evening talking to the cast, separating herself from Vincent.  She wanted to know the singers and the dancers, in the same way, she always wanted to know the artists of the works she dealt with.  It gave Vincent space to preen and do what he needed to with members of the press.

Opera Garnier had a different sheen to it, ever since the night Vincent’s office was broken into.  Ever since the Essence was found. The gold felt a little more garish, the lights felt a little too bright, the chandeliers a little more sparkly.  Everything was hard to look at for too long. She’d only been here a handful of times but none of them were this disorientating.

It felt like the exhibit opening all over again.  Except now, there was no mistaking their relationship.  She had no place here, next to him, simply as his art advisor.  Not for a closing performance, especially.

As if the way they stood next to each other wasn’t already a dead giveaway.  The way they whispered to one another, the small smiles, the stolen glances. Composed though they both were, there was no misinterpretation of anything now.

While familiar, it was also new.  She knew the steps, the words, and when to step away, but it didn’t feel cloying and restrictive, not like it used to.  Many were actually interested in what she had to say. She’d correct their misconceptions, as she often had to, but it was a delight to see eyes light up or be asked questions out of genuine curiosity.

 _At least I’m accustomed to the scrutiny of the press,_ Sophia thought.   _Out of practice, granted, but it makes things...easier._

Easier.  It’d been so long since she’d even considered companionship, let alone tried.  And something told her Vincent was the same way, although he’d never mentioned anything other than simply never finding anyone interesting enough.  He’d then corrected himself and explained that no one had, in a long time, managed to worm into his head and stay there. Made his pulse jump the way she did, muddle his thoughts as much as she did.  Made him feel, for once, less alone.

They were leaving the Opera House when she noticed a frown tugging at Vincent’s lips as he scanned a text.  His hand was still in hers but they stopped walking, causing other people to have to go around them to descend to the street.  He typed a reply one-handed, brushing his thumb over her hand briefly in apology. She was used to the moments when he did have to reply, rather than ignore the email or text until later.  It wasn’t much different from their previous arrangement, she realized. He had, in some ways, been genuine with her from the start, even if his motives changed.

“You’re patrolling tomorrow night, correct?” He asked, tucking the device back into his pocket as they left the opera house.  His jaw was set, betraying his neutral tone.

The last time they’d been here, they left separately and for a completely different reason.

“Yes, same times as always,” Sophia replied, turning her attention to watch her footing on the stairs.  Their reason to be at Opera Garnier changed, but her unwise choice in footwear hadn’t. To not wear heels would have felt so informal.  “Why?”

He didn’t answer immediately, not until they were in the relative privacy of the car.

“When you’re finished, take a detour towards Champs-Élysées,” Vincent said, as Eugene pulled away from the opera house and into the evening traffic.  “There’s...something I would like to show you in my lab. You won’t need to leave the tunnels.”

Sophia found herself raising an eyebrow.  “Since when do you dwell below the city?”

“Since always.  You just never _found_ my hiding spots.”

“Good thing I’m not a Hufflepuff then,” she said.

Vincent’s face took on a boyish innocence at her words.  Oh no. Sophia resisted the urge to smile at that expression she loved so much.  He probably didn’t even know what Hufflepuff was. She hadn’t exactly grown up on Harry Potter but she’d read the books, seen the movies, and enjoyed the series throughout her teenage years and young adulthood.  They weren’t that far apart in age—nine years—but the difference was enough that he might never have been bothered with the series beyond a basic understanding of the universe. The musical parody she referred to was very likely not something he knew about.

“You’re far more Ravenclaw, perhaps even Slytherin, than Hufflepuff, although you _did_ manage to find the forgery source quite quickly.”

It was Sophia’s turn to stare at him blankly, her eyes wide in the realization that he knew exactly what she’d just said.  That the words weren’t nonsense to him. Vincent Karm _knew_ Harry Potter references?  Did he like Harry Potter?

Vincent chuckled softly, amused at her reaction.  “I work in media, it can’t be that shocking, Sophia.”

“Somehow I think you’re always going to surprise me,” she admitted.  “Vincent Karm, a Harry Potter fan.”

“Just don’t go looking for basilisks and you should find the lab just fine.  And for the record, Hufflepuffs make very good finders. I find very talented individuals, after all.”

“You _do_ value loyalty.”

“More importantly, I found you.”

Sophia couldn’t help but laugh, her face heating up a little at how quickly he’d been able to turn the conversation.  

It felt liberating to laugh, to truly smile, not out of obligation, but because she couldn’t contain what she felt.  As though holding it in would make her implode. It still felt strange that she could be more open, perhaps even a little silly, with someone known to be so stern and serious.  She’d grown to understand that he, too, simply had a side very few saw. The public was different, but when they were on their own, they could enjoy the sides of each other they hadn’t been able to before because of the professional boundary.  

“You found the opportunity, you mean,” Sophia corrected.

His hand found hers and raised it to his lips once before turning it over and kissing the pulse point of her wrist.  Did he still feel when her heart rate picked up at the slightest touch? How breathing suddenly became a conscious act because otherwise, she’d suffocate from her own joy?  He pressed a kiss across the heel of her palm, and then another to the center of her palm.

“I would have made one.”

He had a mischievous glint in his eyes that told her he wasn’t joking.  Sophia brushed her thumb over his lips, not wanting to pull away. She hadn’t felt this thrill, this fire, in so long.  Every parting felt like a dowsing of cold water, reality reminding her that even if they were crossing this line, they both had obligations to attend to without the other.

“I know,” Sophia whispered.

Her apartment came up too quickly and she wished for the thousandth time in weeks for more time.

* * *

A rat scurried across the beam of the flashlight, squeaking as it went back to its search for dinner.  Or, judging by the hour, probably dessert. Sophia was never used to the things or creatures they found down below the streets.  Grey-water, rats, various kinds of garbage carried through the parts with flowing water. The brickwork was caked in years of dirt and other things she didn’t want to name.

In the distance, she could hear the rushing water.  They weren’t far from one of the modern touches of the underground; their path often intersected with an electric floodgate system for a nearby treatment plant.  

The next gate was coming up on their right but they’d eventually have to cross the tiny metal walkways to get a good view of the slab of metal.  The waterway was mostly dry, save the tiny puddles left over from a previous day’s rain. Another rat squeaked and ran away, its tiny paws splashing through the puddle as it went.  

Sophia pointed the beam of light further down and saw two more tails whip out of sight.  More rats. That usually wasn’t the case, not in this section of the tunnels. Strange, she supposed.  But rats were rats and vermin went where they could for food. It wasn’t exactly unusual for them to be there at all.  

The door itself looked intact.  It was sealed with no signs of water getting through.  No damage.

It was like reading the same line over and over sometimes.  Walking down here, only to notice nothing changed, and everything was fine.  She understood why it was done but it was tedious; there was nothing dynamic about the gate with the Madonna-like figure on it, about the bricks and the stone and the rats.  Paintings had variety. There was always something new to discover when looking at a familiar painting.

But this?  It was frustrating.  Especially when she was looking forward far more to her plans after this.

She’d never been to Vincent’s lab.  In fact, she was certain no one had been in Vincent’s lab except the owner himself.  Which meant he was probably closer to getting the Essence perfume perfected. Or maybe he had something else entirely he planned to show her.  It was exciting not only because she was trusted to be there, but because he trusted her to find it on her own. He was testing her navigation skills; if she could make it, she’d get to see what he was so eager to share with her.

Regardless of what was planned, she was thrilled at the prospect.  It made her breath catch and her mind wander. Her stomach kept doing flips and she hoped Alexandre didn’t see her grinning like an idiot at the worst of times.

They finished looking at the gate and moved on, Alexandre leading the way.  His blonde hair was one of the few things she could make out in the darker parts of the tunnels, the sections that merged with the Catacombs to make for less than ideal traversal.  The roaring of the water was more distant now, thankfully. Sophia had seen what the system was like up close and didn’t find the idea of falling down into the rushing water or ending up in one of the basins to be one of the most appealing evening activities.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Alexandre said, casting a glance over his shoulder at her.

His observation wasn’t wrong, she knew; she’d been quieter than she usually was.  No questions or quips, nothing of note to really say. At least, not to him. She’d save her conversation for someone else.  

_I wonder just how far I’ll have to…_

“Nothing’s changed, that’s all.  Everything down here looks normal, the gates are shut and the causeways are as dry as bone,” Sophia explained, pointing her flashlight down to her left to make her point.

“That’s not the only thing we look for,” Alexandre glared at her over his shoulder.  “There’s been foot traffic down here recently. A lot of it.”

_Fuck.  Fuckfuckfuck.  He can’t mean…not Vincent, surely._

It was unlikely.  Not impossible, but highly unlikely for Alex and his merry band of...whoever...to know about Vincent’s whereabouts.  He was always careful to cover his tracks. Well, almost always. He was until his ego got the better of him. Audrey Kingsley was quiet lately, as far as she knew.  TJ had stopped texting her. Raphael Laurent was seen caught some time ago attempting to climb the Eiffel Tower. He was still recovering from the press coverage.

“Wouldn’t know anything about _that_ , would you, Sophia?”

“No.  No idea what you’re talking about.”

The words came out less serious than she’d meant for them to.  She wasn’t in the mood for the accusatory tone and insinuation.

_I’ve been doing this for how long now?_

He stopped short and Sophia almost ran into him.  Her flashlight clattered to the ground and rolled, stopping when it hit the stone wall on her right.  Alexandre turned his flashlight on her, blinding her for a moment. She winced, although she wasn’t sure if it was from the glimpses of a furious glare and borderline snark or from the flashlight.  Spots danced across her vision and she felt a hand grip the front of her jacket.

She wondered if _this_ was what her introduction would have been like had it only been him and Catherine that night.  If the beating hadn’t been left to someone else to complete. Alexandre wasn’t intimidating, not naturally so.  He didn’t have the build or the presence or the predatory gaze that were off-putting. But when he was angry or needed to get his point across, he was more than capable of inciting fear.

“We _know_ he’s doing something down here.  Something that endangers the common people and the wealthy,” Alexandre’s voice was low, his breath hot against her temple and ear.  “Tell him that if we must, we will act. And you will go down with him.”

“What...Alex, I’ve done everything asked of me,” Sophia tried to pull away, only for his grip on her jacket to tighten.  “ _Everything_.”

“You’re closer to Karm than you made it seem.  I might have told you to protect him but I can do _nothing_ if he’s setting up his own devious schemes.”

“It’s a recent development.  But it won’t impact—”

“But it already does, you ridiculous American.  Your head is so full of romantic ideation that you failed to notice the marks along the last gate we passed.  Not that you’d truly be made a Knight anyway. But the least you could do is be useful down here.”

Alexandre let her go, pushing her slightly as he turned away from her.  He began walking again, his strides purposeful as his boots hit the stone floor of the empty corridor. Sophia fixed her jacket and picked up her flashlight, catching a glimpse of her companion as he rounded a corner.  She picked up her pace and caught up with him, a quiet fire kindling in her stomach.

He didn’t get to threaten her, threaten Vincent, by scaring her and without explanation.  So she’d missed a few details. It wasn’t as though they’d both missed them. That was why, as far as she knew, Alexandre’s compatriots traveled in pairs.  Two sets of eyes were better than one.

And if she was never going to be one of these Knights, then why the fuck did her mistake even matter?

“Why are you angry with me?” she asked, feeling a slight twinge in her ankle as she kept pace with him.

“I just told you,” his words were clipped and felt like shards of ice against her skin.  “You’re distracted. Makes you useless. And you know what’s going on and yet you refuse to take action.”

He turned and pointed the tiny light in her direction, this time missing her eyes.  “We cannot afford to be sloppy.”

“What’s the point of me even coming if I’m just...extra hands?  Hands that’ll never see the strings pulling them?”

“Because you’re capable.  Because you’re the kind to stick your nose into what isn’t yours.  Because I promised her to trust you.”

His brown eyes were hard and cold.  Like black coffee that had been left out to cool and was promptly forgotten about.  Alexandre bit the inside of his cheek as his brow relaxed and his gaze softened.

“Catherine?”  Sophia asked, following him when he began walking again, thankful for the slower pace.

“ _Oui_.  You and she are...were...birds of the same feather.  Outside sources brought in. Dangerous but it was more dangerous to trust some of the others in our circle,”  he paused and gave a soft sign before continuing. “But I can’t blame you for protecting him or wanting to when I told you he’s in a precarious position, to begin with.”

“It’s just more precarious than before,” Sophia whispered.

Of course.  She should have expected this.  Vincent’s plan put people in danger, removed the very soul of the city by its machinations.  The city was already expensive. She knew he planned to use the contacts he had to fix the market, at least parts of it so that necessities would increase and drive out those too poor to keep up.  Those who could afford it would live in a blissful Eden, their whims and desires met with ease as their minds were addled with an ancient and powerful drug that kept them wanting more.

She was an idiot to think someone else wouldn’t try to get involved.  That Vincent was the only one with ears and eyes around the city.

“We will act if we must.  I doubt it will come to that.  Leo’s been talking about some journalist lately and her plan for a story.  Something to do with Karm, from what I didn’t tune out. He rambles when he paints.”

They finished their route without another word to another, Alex’s words making her head spin.  She was agitated. Annoyed. She’d failed to see what was right in front of her and now Kingsley was going to make a move to destroy everything before it began.  

And perhaps put something far more dangerous into motion.  Catherine’s husband was a politician, with connections and power.  Who else was in this secretive circle, with just as much sway and influence?

 _Stop.  Stop it.  Getting ahead of yourself again.  There’s no proof. Nothing more than speculation and political spin,_ she thought.   _Not to mention it might not even be political._

There were more pressing matters, anyway.  Her anxiety eased when she thought of seeing Vincent again, replaced with something less sinister and more pleasant.  The comfort of his presence alone would clear her head. Or at least give her something else to think about. A distraction would help put some distance between her and her thoughts, at least for the moment.

“How do I get to Champs-Élysées from here?” Sophia asked, turning on the spot to look at the different tunnels that branched off from their current location.

“That way,” Alexandre pointed towards a tunnel on their left.  “The main waterway runs right under the roundabout. You’ll see more city lights and such, that section is closer to the surface.  Should take about ten minutes.”

She thanked him and followed the tunnel, hoping he was right on the time estimate.

* * *

 

 _This is definitely taking longer than ten minutes,_ Sophia thought irritably.   

She tried to listen for running water, for any kind of indication she was nearing her destination.

Just bricks and dirt and more _rats_.  Given the city’s history with the Black Plague, she wasn’t entirely surprised to see this many, but she was beginning to feel uneasy whenever she saw their eyes reflect the light.  

She couldn’t shake the feeling that they weren’t the only ones watching her.  She’d caught a glimpse of something much larger than a rat on occasion, but nothing obvious.  Likely a feral cat, perhaps, or larger undercity dwellers.

It would have been better to try going on the surface and finding a way back down.  At least then she’d have fresher air in her lungs and more light to guide her.

Sophia shuddered at the memory of the darkness of the Catacombs, the tunnels narrow and full of death.  At least here, there weren’t any bones to step over. Her unease only pushed her to seek her exit and she fought to keep calm.  She wasn’t lost. She just needed to pay attention.

She ducked under a thick cobweb in hopes of avoiding the sticky threads.  Her shoulder caught on it at the last moment and she gave a sharp cry when she went to brush the remnants from her shoulder only to find a spider had joined her.  She brushed at her shoulder until she was sure the arachnid was no longer there before she did the same with her other side and her hair.

There was nothing to be scared of, she rationalized.  The spider was likely harmless. The dark was only enhancing everything else.  She’d made it through worse.

She looked around and the tightness of a shiver between her shoulder blades came free, one Sophia had been trying her best to hold.  The movement she saw wasn’t from a small animal as she previously thought. There was no mistaking it now. The shadow was much larger than she thought it was.  Someone was following her.

Anyone who worked for Vincent wasn’t that sloppy.  They made it a point to never be seen.

She took a deep breath and kept going a little further.  No footsteps. Sophia rounded quickly on her heel and scanned the tunnel behind her.  Nothing. Maybe she’d been imagining things. After she rounded a turn, she could see a slighter tunnel in the distance and hear the soft sound of moving water.  

Sophia let out a breath of relief.   _Thank goodness._

She was going to have to discuss a better way to get across the city.

* * *

She hesitantly made her way down after being cleared by the guard just past the door to the waterway.  Her eyes had barely adjusted from the darkness of her path to the light of the tunnel before she was plunged into dim lighting again.  

Sophia inwardly cursed at the spiral staircase.  Whoever thought it was a good idea was an idiot. A ladder would have been more functional in such a tight space.  Granted, it was likely here long before Vincent found the space and repurposed it.

He could have replaced it, though.  That would have been nice. Surely he didn’t enjoy having to duck every time he wanted to leave.

Sophia reached the halfway point and peered down over the railing into the lab.  Vincent sat at the table, his jacket neatly hung up, his cufflinks and signet ring on the table, the metal catching the light for a moment.  His sleeves were rolled up to accommodate the needle in the crook of his elbow.

The needle’s contents glowed like the essence but had a gold tint to it instead. Like molten metal, the shine inherent to the material itself rather than from an additive, but it was entirely translucent.

His hair was unkempt as if he had had a fit of frustration.  A few stray pieces crossed over his forehead, no longer able to stay in place.

He was worried, she surmised.  That happened more and more lately.  His face never gave away any of his concern, of course.  He was too practiced for that. There was almost always a crease in his brow or tension in his jaw.  It relaxed momentarily but returned throughout their time together.

She never saw him without his jacket before, nor his hair so ruffled.  He looked so...casual to her. Briefly, she wondered if anyone’s fingers ever messed up his hair that way and felt her cheeks grow warm when she thought of her fingers in his hair.  She swallowed hard, willing her heart to beat normally. It refused to comply and for a moment, her head was occupied with thoughts she hadn’t had in years, heat running through her.  She tightened her grip on the rail and descended slowly.

The last thing either of them needed was him distracted with a needle in his arm.  He finished what he was doing and capped the needle before rising to toss it, and a tiny bottle, into a small plastic container for such materials.

She heard the tell-tale jingle of Esteban’s collar as the pug came out from under Vincent’s chair to greet her.  Sophia scooped up the pug and Esteban licked her chin gently before settling into her arms, huffing in content. She was surprised Vincent brought him down here; it was dangerous for the little dog to get caught underfoot.  

Vincent stepped towards her and she felt familiar arms around her, the pug slightly squeezed between them as she leaned into him.  She let out a soft sigh and pressed her forehead to his chest for a moment, relieved. Warm hands cupped her face and she looked up, lips meeting hers softly, carefully.  Vincent kissed her forehead and hairline before he pulled away and glanced down at her with slight concern. It was gone as soon as it came and she doubted if she ever saw it at all.

“What was it you wanted to show me?” Sophia asked softly as Vincent stepped back and returned to the laptop perched above a set of small drawers.

She made her way into the specimen room, the fluorescent lights harsh and white.  The plants were all green, healthy, some bearing bright flowers. Probably poisonous ones.  The labels were handwritten, the names in Latin. A few of them were in temperature controlled units, the glass surface thick with condensation.

She heard Vincent’s footsteps as he moved about the main room.  She peered out from around the dividing wall to find Vincent glancing in her direction, any traces of worry gone from his features.  There was certainty there now, and a tiny bit of gentleness mixed with something stronger.

“Take off your jacket and have a seat,” he turned his attention back to the computer before moving onto the drawers to his left.  “You’ll see soon enough.”

Sophia shed her leather jacket and hung it up on the coat rack, the sleeves brushing Vincent’s suit jacket.  She eyed the stool warily but sat down, watching him for a moment. She felt her face grow hot again when she realized she was staring at him, his waistcoat only accentuating the slim frame she knew well.  She looked away when he turned around, slightly afraid that if he looked her square in the eyes, he’d see what she’d been thinking.

Vincent sat in a nearby chair, the corner of the table between them.  He placed a tiny bottle of the same glowing gold liquid and a packaged syringe on the surface, along with a tourniquet and a few alcohol wipes.  

“Left or right arm?”

Sophia turned towards him slightly to rest her left elbow on the table.  It took everything in her to pay attention to her heart flutter as his fingers grazed her forearm.

“A countermeasure,” he said softly, tying the tourniquet and searching for a vein. He had no trouble finding one. Despite the chill down here, his hands were warm and never faltered in their actions.  “It’ll prevent any amount of the Essence to affect you. If all goes according to plan, I need you coherent. And if this nosy journalist has her way, it’ll never be used against you.”

_Is he doubting himself? Or did he realize he underestimated her?_

He opened the syringe and filled it halfway with the luminous liquid.

_Why are you protecting me from yourself, from your own creation?  What are you afraid of?_

The words were on the cusp of her lips but they never came.  Vincent leaned forward and took her arm gently with one hand, the other arranging the syringe.  She winced as the needle pierced her skin and was vaguely aware of his thumb rubbing her arm when she hissed.  

It _burned_. Worse than any shot she ever got, any IV needle she’d ever had.  Worse than any alcohol she ever consumed. For a moment, she felt euphoria, her entire body on fire, her head spinning and heart beating like a drum.

Everything she ever felt since their first meeting concentrated into a single moment.  Her veins were filled with liquid fire, scorching, licking at her skin for satisfaction.  Yet it was tethered to something so emotional, so utterly pure, she wanted to cry. She couldn’t handle much more of this...

He untied the tourniquet and covered the needle mark with a small bandage.  Sophia stayed seated as he moved about the space, cleaning up and disposing of the needle in the same plastic bin from earlier.  Sophia focused on pushing air into her lungs, fighting back the remnants of the ecstasy and fire, the longing that refused to go away.  Her blood hummed in her ears as her pulse refused to slow.

And then there was nothing.  It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice over her, the fire was gone as quickly as it began.

Sophia looked up at him, eyes wide.  For the second time that night, she had light flashed into her eyes, but this was brief, just to check her pupils.  Fingers found her pulse that, while faster than normal, was nowhere near what it had been moments earlier.

“I can see why it was buried,” she murmured as he turned away and went to the laptop, where he quickly typed a note.

“It’s far more controlled than the real thing, at least psychologically.”

“You’ve tried it?”

“I couldn’t sell a product I didn’t try, at least in some form,” he replied, shutting the laptop and returning to the chair he previously occupied.  “But everything is finalized. Marion has her orders and she’ll get final press release details in a few days.”

He leaned back slightly in the chair, his usual confident air returning as he interlaced his fingers and rested his hands in his lap.  

_Does he know about the story?_

“What about Kingsley?” Sophia found herself asking.

“The journalist can do nothing at this point, at least not publicly.”

“Not even an article revealing everything?”

Vincent’s eyes grew wide for a moment in realization.  “So _that_ was why that computer was on.  Clever indeed. Marion must not have had the credentials reset yet.”

He pulled out his phone and Sophia did the same.  She pulled up the _City of Love_ homepage and found nothing new.  Nothing on Vincent, nothing about the Essence.  Audrey Kingsley hadn’t published anything in over a week.

“Marion stayed behind; whatever the pesky woman attempted to do didn’t happen,” Vincent slid his phone back into his pocket.  “But how did you…?”

She shrugged.  “The artist. Leo Dubois.  They’re friends. He mentioned it to Alexandre.”

Sophia looked away, her eyes scanning the lab before falling back onto the table.  The ring caught her attention again. She never saw it anywhere but his hand and she could just make out a name engraved in the band, the last name obscured by the angle.  Paul.

Was Paul…?

She looked back at Vincent, only to find him watching her, head tilted to the side slightly.  She couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking when he looked at her. His green eyes fell to the ring and his expression softened.  He sat up and held out a hand, silently beckoning her closer. Sophia stood and stepped over to him, placing her hand in his as he looked slightly up at her.  She reached out and pressed her other hand to his cheek; he cupped her hand with his and leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a moment.

His brow furled and she watched his mouth set into a firm line.  Pain. A pain to never be truly healed.

“It was his, wasn’t it?” She whispered.  “The one you lost?”

“I loved him.  He was my world and he was taken from me far too soon.”

“I’m sorry, Vincent.”

“I never got to tell him.  He died with me angry at him.  Laurent was driving. It was raining.  I said things that night that I didn’t mean and I never got to take them back.”

Her heart ached at the sight of the man in front of her, a man so many knew to be menacing and cruel.  All she could see was someone trying to bury pain and agony. Who tried and failed to put the past behind him entirely.  Who carried a reminder of what used to be, wore it where others wore a wedding band.

A sharp stab went through her as she recalled their night in the Louvre.  She’d asked if he’d ever been engaged and his response suddenly felt like a cinder block to her gut.

 _Almost_.

Almost was always worse.

He pulled her hand away from his cheek and brought it to his lips, kissing her palm, and then her fingertips, one by one.

“Does that bother you?” he whispered, opening his eyes as he placed her hand back on his cheek.  She could feel light stubble beneath her palm. “That I loved a man? That I find men and women to be attractive?”

“No,” she replied, the word on her lips before he could finish his question.

That he’d loved another didn’t bother her.  Neither did the fact that his previous love was a man.  It was a detail that clarified who he was and his preferences.  It was important but didn’t overshadow their relationship, nor what she felt for him.  His revelation didn’t change anything, nor did it make her doubt the authenticity of his feelings in turn.

She only wished to be able to ease the burden of his past, not erase it.

“It doesn’t diminish anything,” she whispered.

Sophia raised the hand that held hers to her lips, kissing every knuckle once before arranging herself in his lap.  He let go of her other hand so she could wrap her arms around his neck. Vincent circled his arms around her waist.

“I should have told you...before we....” he said.  “It’s...difficult to discuss.”

“I don’t think any differently of you.  I accept you for who you are.”

His arms tightened around her and pulled her close as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.  Vincent kissed the column of her neck and traced kisses along her jaw, hovering over her lips. Sophia closed the distance, pressing her lips to his with certainty that gave way to passion.

“Come with me to Versailles,”  he whispered, breaking the kiss so they could breathe.  “For the conference.”

“You want me there?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Another kiss, deeper than before, took what little breath she regained away.  

“It would ruin what little cover I have left,” Sophia gasped.  “It’s very public.”

Publicity meant being observed.  It meant being more careful than ever when meeting Leo or Alexandre or when coming up from the city depths.  More people looking into her, both her present dealings and her past. It was already messy as it was.

“It does offer protection.  Establishes you have resources should anyone decide to threaten or harm you.”

_It’s not me I’m worried about._

“I’ll come,” she kissed him again before she continued.  “But I won’t be front and center. In front of any camera.”

Their noses barely touched as Vincent considered her words.

“Fair enough, _ma chérie._  Now, where were we?”

Her hands found their way to his hair as they kissed yet again and she discovered it was, in fact, as soft as she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The relationship with Paul is never truly established outside of Vincent's special episode, nor does it say whether the characters were more than friends. Many, myself included, speculate that there was more than friendship between the two.


	19. Chapter 19

Sophia blocked out Marion’s chatter as they wandered around Place Vendôme, hopping from boutique to boutique.  Chanel and Dior were promising, she supposed, but if she was going to spend that much for one event, her choices had to be versatile.  They’d passed a lingerie boutique on their way into Nina’s, one of Marion’s favorite places for tea, and Sophia found her eyes drawn to the black bustier with black filigree detail on the bust, curling into the straps.  Her face felt warm and she looked away, making a mental note to return later.

Vincent asked her to stay with him the weekend before the press release.  The entire weekend. Her hands trembled as she read the text from earlier that morning and her mind kept wandering to what that would be like.  To fall asleep next to him, to spend her evenings with someone as opposed to being alone and reading over files or flipping through a streaming app looking for something to occupy her mind.  He was interested in the files Vasiley gave her some time ago and told her to bring them. He’d called it a calm before a storm before mass production happened and he was too busy expanding his empire again.  

It shouldn’t surprise her, that he wanted to spend what time he could with her.  She got the impression very few, if anyone, ever spent their weekend in his penthouse.  She hadn’t slept in anyone else’s bed in a long time. Or do anything else, for that matter.  The heat between them was amazing but they never seemed to have the opportune moment or setting for anything more than long kisses.  A deeper part of her was thrilled and anxious all at once.

“Ugh, not you too,” Marion muttered as they walked into the salon, her frustrated expression replaced with a smile as the hostess recognized her.

They were seated for tea towards the back of the salon, at a table that Sophia could only assume was the other woman’s favorite.  As they looked over the menus to decide on their tea, Marion explained her encounter with Audrey Kingsley earlier that morning. The journalist had used an excuse of erotic underthings and Sophia felt her eyes grow wide, watching Marion nonchalantly look over the menu as though she hadn’t said the words ‘vibrating panties’.

“I’m entirely focused on a dress, not what’s under it,” Sophia looked back at the list of teas, wondering whether caffeine was necessary.

She flicked her gaze to meet Marion’s manicured eyebrow raised in a perfect arch.

“I’m not dignifying that with a response,” she muttered, looking back to her menu as Marion laughed softly.

Caffeine was absolutely necessary.

* * *

She was never going to leave this dressing room with the way Marion kept running back and forth.  The other woman came and went from the room as she pleased as Sophia tried things on, sometimes not even letting her finish getting the dress zipped before telling her to remove it and try something else.

So far, the ‘no’ pile was bigger than the ‘maybe’ pile.  Nothing was a ‘yes’.

The event wouldn’t take long but there was a large element of pageantry to it, Vincent’s plan more like one of his opera’s than a simple press event.  It would be followed by a launch party later that evening at one of Paris’ most exclusive clubs.

Which meant she needed two dresses for the day.  She already bought the one for the evening party at another boutique.  It was a wine-colored off the shoulder cocktail dress with an asymmetrical cut, revealing one thigh in the front, the severe cut not visible from the back.  The sleeves and collar were trimmed in a gold lace. It was flashier than many of the other dresses she owned but it wouldn’t be the most outrageous outfit there, she well knew.

“You should stick with pinks and reds, I think,” Marion said, undoing her messy bun only to re-tie it again.  

Thankfully, she’d ditched her red suit for a more casual appearance, jeans and a cotton shirt.  Plain but less formal than Sophia. The blonde was a chameleon, changing her appearance to another’s needs, something Sophia never forgot from their first encounter.  Meanwhile, the brunette was dressed in slacks and a blouse, as though she was working and not out shopping on a day off.

“This could work,” the Frenchwoman hung up a red gown, bright and vibrant yet no less elegant.  “Lady in Red kind of thing. Would fit the theme of seduction and everything…”

“No.  Hell no.  The idea is for me to be there without making a scene, Marion,” Sophia snapped, pulling a pink dress off of a hanger.  “I went bright for the other dress.”

The dress she slipped on was a deep V-cut, exposing her chest a little more than she preferred, but the lines were clean and modern, form-fitting without clinging.  The material hugged her waist, falling into a sheath before gently flaring out, a gentle mermaid-style skirt. A slit ran up the left side of the skirt, stopping at her knee.  Pink wasn’t something she wore often—come to think of it, she wasn’t sure if she even owned anything pink anymore—but it looked right. It felt right.

The color was soft, as was the fabric.  It felt smooth underneath her hands as she adjusted it here and there until it fell just right.

“You know, I was afraid pastels would wash you out,” Marion quipped when Sophia stepped out of the dressing room to walk the length of the larger space and check out the three-way mirror.  “But—and I never say this—I was wrong.”

It was, perhaps, a little more formal than necessary for a press release.  But it was versatile and she could wear it again. It was easy to move in, elegant without being overstated.  

“I’ll take it.”

* * *

She packed light, or as light as one could with two dresses, weekend clothes, a purse, a large dog, and enough files and papers to write a book.  Said files were bound tightly and in her weekend bag, near her shoes and make-up. Sophia hadn’t slept in anyone else’s home in a long time and her heart hammered in her chest as she entered the elevator.  Theo was, as with all things, excited to be away from home. Sophia couldn’t leave the large dog behind for such a long time, lest her apartment be destroyed, not to mention she didn’t heed anyone other than Sophia or Vincent.  

The dog’s tail thumped against her leg as she turned the warm metal over in her hands, running her thumb over the unique grooves of the keys, teeth meant for one lock per key.  She slid one into the lock in the elevator, marked ‘private’, and turned it, rather than selecting a floor.

Last time, there’d been someone in the elevator to take them up.

He’d given her the keys one night after dinner, during a walk across the city.  He’d framed it as a necessity, should Esteban need to be taken care of in Eugene’s absence, a painting needed to be transported, or if she needed a change of scenery from the third arrondissement.  He said it with such nonchalance that it hadn’t been nonchalant at all. Suspicious, even.

She’d stopped in her tracks and narrowed his eyes at him, frustrated that even now he still tended to hide behind long-winded explanations for his actions.  He’d returned her gaze with a raised eyebrow and explained that perhaps he also wanted her company more often than their day schedules allowed and Eugene wouldn’t always be around to let her in.

Funny, how he used a voice lock on his door but a regular key for his home.  But then again, she expected as such from him. Few people were this close to him.

She adjusted her bags and walked out the elevator, using the other key to unlock the front door.  Excited snorts and yelps were heard over soft music as she entered and placed her things by the door, dropping Theo’s leash to let her greet the pug.   Esteban came barreling into the foyer, past the fluffball companion and straight for Sophia, his tongue lolling slightly in joy. She smiled as she bent down to scratch his ears, his tail wagging furiously.  His yowls gave way to snorts and soft whines, sounds that she knew meant he was happy, even if they were a little distorted. Theo joined in before another set of hands reached for her leash and gestured for her to quiet down.

Sophia scooped up the pug to find Vincent in a staring contest with Theo, the dog wanting nothing more than to _not sit_ and make all the noise she wanted and explore the space.  The dog moved slightly and Vincent cocked his head, as if to dare her to try.  She sat back and waited until he signaled she could come and he stroked her head fondly.

“She never did like to listen,” Vincent said, and Sophia noticed he was missing his jacket and had his sleeves rolled up, as though he was in the middle of something.  “But she’ll hardly be bored, Esteban enjoys the company.”

At the sound of his name, the pug gave a garbled whine and squirmed to be put down.  Sophia obliged and he skittered across the hardwood, down into the sunken living area, and came back with a toy, curled tail wagging.  Theodora gave chase and for a moment, Sophia wondered if this was how play-dates went for parents.

“Where should I put my things?”  She asked, leaning in when she felt lips pressed against her forehead, seeking her cheek, and then her lips.

“This way,” Vincent took the hangers in one hand and her hand in the other, leading her down the corridor into the other sitting room.  They crossed the space, past the double doors for his home office, and around a corner, the shorter hallway offering a floor-to-ceiling view just like most of the outside rooms did.

The room had a high ceiling and large windows, at least two stories’ length, Sophia figured.  The lights of Paris were just starting to flicker on but the late afternoon sun was still streaming through strong.  Here, too, she could see the convergence of old and new, modern and antique. The bed and nightstands were a dark espresso, classical curves and decorations carved into the headboard, echoes of the patterns in the nightstands.  A modern painting hung opposite the windows, above the bed, the entire sleeping space framed by wood that matched the furniture in color and style. A set of chairs sat next to the window, a low, tiny table between them, the surface covered with a few magazines and a few old books.  There wasn’t much color here, she noted, except for the green tufted bench at the foot of the bed. The sheets were white, the duvet a dark grey.

The room would always be dwarfed by the view, regardless of its contents.

He hung up her dresses in a small room right off the bedroom, on the other side of the bed.  She placed her suitcase underneath, out of the way.

“The washroom is straight through,” he pointed to the doors to her right, “and the closet is behind you,” Vincent gestured to the second set of doors, leading to a space behind the bed.  “I’m finishing up a few things but dinner should be ready shortly.”

Sophia nodded, more self-conscious than before. She wasn’t sure what else she’d expected, of course she’d sleep next to him. It was quite silly if she didn’t, but if she wanted the guest room, he’d let her have it, she knew.  But she didn’t want to be that far away from him and it defeated the purpose of her staying. Surely he felt just as awkward as she did. After all, it was his bedroom.

Then again, he’d never reveal if he did, she well knew. He was too well practiced for that.

He offered his hand and she took it, leaning into him as they walked back to the main living area.  Esteban and Theodora were content to chase one another for a toy, the larger dog lacking the finesse Esteban had in making turns. He knew the floor plan by heart whereas Theo was still getting used to the space.

“There are papers I’d like you to look over.  We can discuss them over dinner but I would prefer an answer tonight so I can courier it to my lawyer in the morning.”

“ _That_ urgent?”  She felt concern crease her forehead for a moment as she pulled away to let him return to the kitchen.

“Not urgent, no, more...precautionary than anything.  Read them first.”

He left her no more room for a rebuttal, kissing her again before she could reply.  She felt her body go slack slightly, taken aback by the gesture, and he chuckled as he stepped away, leaving her standing and dazed.

* * *

Sophia frowned as she read through the papers, curled up in an armchair in the sunken sitting space.  Not terribly far from where Vincent and she sat after she’d woken to find a nightmare was true. She was fluent enough in French but the legal complexities were making her head spin even more. She could get the basic concepts but even if it was in English, she had the feeling it still needed to be put into simpler terms.

She was tired of contracts.

Something about property rights, agents, ownership.  Not of his company but everything else. The illicit, pseudo-legal operations.  Resources.

It didn’t make sense.  It wasn’t a will, it wasn’t power of attorney or whatever the French equivalent was.  But it might as well have been, from what she could understand. Why would he offer her so much when they hadn’t been together all that long, working relationship aside?  To say she was shocked was putting it lightly.

“Vincent, this is…” she paused for the right word as she rose, rereading a final line before putting the stack of papers back on the coffee table.  It never came and her words hung in the air.

“Consider it a living will, of sorts.”

“But why?”

She crossed the distance of the room and picked a seat at the table.  Sophia was a little relieved to see a familiar meal of steak, a small comfort within a house that wasn’t hers, that she still felt slightly uneasy in still.  It was unknown to her still and she wanted to respect the space in the same way she respected museums and galleries, homes of objects that, while perhaps only fleeting interesting to her, were of enormous importance to someone else.  And because she didn’t want to screw this up, a chance for something more.

“Precautions.  The documents outline particular situations in which I might be incapable of managing or maintaining private assets and resources and the chain of command to be followed.  I’m essentially putting everything outside of my company’s holdings in a trust, accessible only by you, and in certain instances, Eugene.”

He explained further but she couldn’t help but wonder if it was for the same reason that he gave her the Essence compound so she’d never be influenced by it.  Paranoia that someone would hurt him, perhaps, or fear that he’s underestimated Audrey Kingsley just a little too much. If they were married, she would understand, that was a natural legal flow.  But they weren’t and their arrangement was...complicated.

“Should anything happen to me, you won’t be left to start all over.  It’ll allow you to finish what you started, if nothing else. No strings, no fine print.  It’s exactly what it looks like.”

“And when you’re no longer incapable?”

“Everything returns to normal.  Other arrangements can, and will, be made.  In time.”

He _was_ scared, then.  Or at least paranoid.  He acted confident in public, never let on that he was even an iota unsure about how the rest of this plan would unfold.  Perhaps it was only to soothe his ego, tell himself that nothing would go wrong as long as he had all of his bases covered.  

He wasn’t wearing the signet ring at all, she realized, and there was no way for her to tell if this topic stemmed from uncertainty, from any kind of discomfort on his part.

Sophia shifted the conversation away from the documents, and instead focused on dinner, on anything else that didn’t involve red tape and fine print.  She’d expected a weekend alone, without talk of backup plans and contingencies for at least a day and a half. This entire time was meant to be about them, not thinking about possibilities and things that could go wrong and ways to minimize losses and damage.  Yet, she couldn’t blame him for wanting something like this done as soon as possible. Better to have it in place and not to worry about it.

She helped with dishes, a task made more difficult when she was pinned between the sink and Vincent as he bent down to kiss her neck.  It was just unexpected enough that she almost dropped the place she was cleaning. He seemed to strike whenever she was least expecting it.  Sophia was ushered out of the kitchen soon after with a cup of tea and she was stuck looking at the documents she needed to finish. She scooped them up and took them into the second sitting room, Vincent not far behind.

Esteban and Theo were curled up, the pug burrowed into the larger dog’s soft fur and snoring softly.  Theo’s tail twitched in her sleep.

“I’d like to read the files from Vasiley while you’re finishing,” Vincent said, watching the two dogs for a moment longer, as if the sight of his dog with any other creature fascinated him.  “We can discuss it more tomorrow but I’d like to make my own observations first.”

Sophia gathered the files from her bag in the closet and returned with a large bundle in her arms of various files and a few notebooks.  When she returned, she found his office doors open and the light on, although he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She placed them on his desk in his office and settled into the couch nearby.  She kept her tea in one hand as she worked, pen resting against her lips as she read and considered the words in front of her.

* * *

Vincent watched her from the entry to the sitting room, her dark hair curled and falling over the blanket she was wrapped in.  Her blue eyes focused on the scene in front of her as she stood at the window, her posture straight. She carried herself regally at times, authoritatively, and he couldn’t help but think that she wouldn’t stand like that two years ago.  Paris had brought out the pride that New York couldn’t. She knew this city, knew its secrets, its tunnels, its darkest corners. She’d seen death come and take a soul right in front of her, and before that, had been hurt by someone she was supposed to be able to trust.  Her home country held too much history for her. Here, she could get lost in the history of another, of Paris itself, and the work he laid out for her.

She took it on readily, although she slowly grew more willing to lay out her boundaries.  He appreciated that. Her position was a delicate one; if mishandled, it wouldn’t take much for him to end up publicly disgraced, or worse, dead.  As long as he knew where she stood, he knew how to direct her to where she needed to be.

But Sophia Cousland snaked her way into his heart and for the first time in a long time, he was unable to bring himself to use her as he did so many others.

When he invited her to the country, to TJ’s trial by fire, it was to give her a little break.  Show her what else he was involved in and how much he appreciated her work on authenticating the Moreau painting by hanging in while she was there.  There were few who looked as awed by some of the pieces he owned and it was nice to, for once, show them to someone who could truly understand their value beyond the price he paid for them.  He hadn’t expected her to outright ask his opinion, ask what he hadn’t liked about Carter’s newest ideas. She read him like a book and dared to tell him so, called him a contradiction to his face.

Not many lived to tell about their attempts to analyze him.

Her black pants peeked out from the blanket, only just, and he could see the collar of her white top.  The sleeves were sheer, the large ties in the front tied into a bow. Simple and yet so fitting. Much like him, her casual wear never extended past dressing down, although she had a soft spot for denim when it was called for, he recalled.

She was pretty, yes, but he hadn’t hired her to be pretty.  She was capable, more than, and although her debt and duty tied her to him firsas something else that kept them together.  Something beyond money. Something beyond her will to follow through.

He’d first seen it after Catherine’s death, but it was quiet, so tempered no one was the wiser it was there.  He assumed her grief only made her latch onto those in her life more, that in time, she’d process and everything would go on as normal.

As normal as it could be when he ached every time he saw her.  He never cared whether someone who worked for him almost died; they did what they had to do or he’d get rid of them himself.  But Sophia...clever, analytical Sophia...who took whatever she was given and did it well, who spent her time looking over brushstrokes and colors and provenance, who made surprisingly good coffee, whose presence eased him of doubt and tension...who looked at him without fear.  Who bit back when it called for it.

It was the second that jealousy flared in Sophia’s eyes, the blue all the more vibrant from the glowing Essence, tinged with orange from the torches, that he knew it wasn’t just her pain and responsibility that drew her to him.  He’d wanted to kiss her that night, thank her for leading him to the Essence. For his upper hand. He never blamed her for the auction going wrong but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t frustrated by the hindrance.

She would do what she needed to, and in that moment, it was to find any way to get Heloise’s riddle.  For him.

She knew what she was worth, what she could do, even if it was only for herself.  He was proud of her for that. He didn’t know her when her pain and heartbreak was fresh but even two years had taught her much about herself.

And they’d taught him that even he wasn’t as heartless as he portrayed himself to be.  As he thought he was.

The mere idea that she could have been lost to him so long ago brought back a deep-seated pain he never wanted to feel again.  It was that pain that forced him to sit with a lawyer and create the documents laying on the coffee table. The countermeasure in her blood was only the first of many steps he’d put in place; she would need money and connections if his plan went awry.  

Not that it would.  But he’d underestimated Kingsley once already and she’d almost beaten him before it truly began.  

It wouldn’t happen again.  It _couldn’t_.  Hence why he needed everything documented, needed everything in place.  If it was within his power to offer her protection, through whatever means necessary, he would do it.  His empire, the one that relied on him alone, would crumble if there wasn’t some kind of contingency in place until he was back on his feet again, whatever that possibly meant.  

 _None of that matters_ , he told himself as he crossed the room, _not right now._

Right now, what mattered most, was that she was here with him.

* * *

Sophia adjusted the blanket wrapped around her as she watched the city below, Paris never stopping, not once.  There was always light, always something twinkling in the distance. New York was the city that never slept but Paris was the city that never went dark.    
  
As if all of that light would force secrets out into the open.  Not even the brightest light in the city reached the catacombs, nor would it ever. Strange how it was built on dark tunnels, literally on death itself, Sophia mused.  
  
The tea in her hands was cold now, milky and sweet, but not as comforting as it was an hour ago.  Not that she needed comfort. Earl grey didn’t taste the same cold. She wondered, briefly, what it would be like to live here, with Vincent, the skyline of Paris in every room.  High ceilings and dark wood and polished surfaces. Her apartment was dark wood and grey and white, stark and plain in so many ways. She’d tried to add color, add personal touches, but it felt wrong, as though she was betraying the very beauty of the space.  
  
She couldn’t keep this up.  She couldn’t keep her relationship if she was constantly sneaking off to skulk about the city.  It would endanger her and so many others. It confounded her how Alexandre’s Knights knew of her connections, accepted her help only to keep an eye on Vincent, someone too dangerous for them to even consider bringing into the fold.  Alexandre told her to keep Vincent ignorant enough that he never became a true threat. Not out of duty but out of respect for her. Just as he’d told Vincent to pick her up when she watched Catherine’s life leave her body.  
  
What if things had gone differently?  Would he have all of them hunted down and interrogated?  Harmed? Maimed? Ousted publicly? What if he’d hired someone else?  
  
Uncertainty didn’t have its place in her mind.  Not here, not now. Yet it crept back onto her immediately, turning into different shapes in her mind.  Kingsley wasn’t finished yet, she knew, and there was too much left to chance; why else would Vincent ask her to read over and sign papers about a trust, putting property in her name?  He seemed nonchalant but she knew better than to assume he wasn’t considering the worst possible outcome. At least, considering it long enough where she was concerned.  
  
“You’re thinking,” Vincent said, standing behind her.

She felt his arms around her and leaned back into him.  He’s been watching her; she had felt his eyes on her for a few minutes but hadn’t wanted to say anything.  It wasn’t necessary. It was simply what he did as he waited for his chance to swoop in.

“I’m ruminating,” she replied, her head coming to just below his chin.   “I don’t condone this, you know. The Essence.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he replied, meeting her gaze in the window.  “You bend and break rules for principle, not profit.”

“Mm, you paid me to break them, technically.”

“But your driving motivation wasn’t profit.  I promised intangible things, I believe. Your debt aside, of course.”

She felt large hands envelope hers and free them of the mug, his warmth leaving her only long enough to put the cup down on a nearby table.  He returned and held her as before, kissing her head once before looking back at her, and the Parisian cityscape beyond her reflection.

“You don’t condone but neither do you protest.”

 _“_ Because this is better than what could happen.  What probably _will_ happen,” she said, holding his gaze.  “And no, I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Won’t.  They’ll kill you.  Kill me. Just know that it’s...destructive.  For all of Paris. That’s all I can tell you. Better a spell of ecstasy and bliss than panic and destruction.”

She swore he held her tighter when she admitted that she, too, was still a candidate for death.  He wasn’t satisfied, she could tell just from the set of his jaw, but he was going to have to live with it.  It wasn’t hard to follow the logical path of events should he learn of the possibility of what could happen. He would stop at nothing to prevent Paris being swallowed whole by its own nature.  He was never one for wanton destruction and loved his home far too much to let it happen.

He could know something awful would happen, something he’d gleaned long ago himself, but he could never find out what.  That she’d let him see Alex’s files was breach enough.

Her gut twisted sharply and she tensed at the thought of a different possibility; Kingsley failing and Alexandre and his group stepping in.  He’d survive the journalist but not them. They’d make sure of that.

 _Please don’t ask again._  She thought.

“If complacency makes me a bad person, then so be it.  After all, it’s not much different than a psychotropic drug or alcohol.  It impairs judgement and perception.”

She turned in his arms, the edge of the blanket skimming his shoes as she looked up at him.  She watched as his eyes narrowed, a smile curled across his lips, and his eyebrow quirked slightly.

“You’re proving my point of bending rules on principle.”

“Ah, on _that_ I didn’t disagree with you, did I?” Her hands left the confines of the blanket and fell to his tie, slightly off-center from where it usually laid.  She focused on fixing it and let her hands linger on the silk longer than necessary.

“What else do you not disagree with?  I believe I’m far too used to you disagreeing with me to think—”

She grabbed his tie and closed the distance between them, cutting off his sentence as her lips met his.  He gave a muffled protest before realizing what happened. The air between them felt different, alive, and she felt her pulse quicken when the kiss deepened.  The blanket was abandoned as they made their way to the sofa, the warmth no longer needed.

Vincent pulled Sophia down with him and she arranged herself on his lap to straddle him.  He let out a soft groan as she wrapped her arms around him and her hands found his hair. She ran her fingers through the soft tresses, and her heart leapt at the sound, as it always did.   _That_ was a sound she would never tire of hearing, she realized.

She wondered, briefly, when she had last felt this.  Felt a searing desire to close all of the distance between herself and someone else, emotionally and otherwise.  
  
Vincent broke the kiss first, resting his forehead against hers.  Their chests heaved as they caught their breath, noses brushing each other's.  She felt one hand on her back, pressing her to him, the other resting on her hip, his fingers warm against her skin.  Before she could say anything, he kissed her again, just as hard as before. Her words died in her throat and she let out a low moan instead, slightly dazed when he pulled away and began trailing kisses down her neck.    
  
She felt him smirk against her skin, his breath tickling her ear as he said, “If you keep doing that every time I kiss you, I’m never going to stop.”

His lips were warm and inviting and she shuddered as his breath teased her skin again.  Her mind wandered to possibilities, fantasies. She wanted to let go, for once, and let everything else fall to the side.  Let the fire consume her.  
  
"I wouldn’t want you to," she whispered, a shiver running down the column of her spine as his hand brushed a sensitive spot at her waist.  
  
He kissed her again, accepting her challenge, as she knew he would.  She realized her legs were no longer pressed against the couch and vaguely felt herself being lifted and carried out of the room.  

She felt cool sheets beneath her and crawled back to accommodate him, their lips meeting again feverishly.  Her hands traced his hairline at his neck before she ran her fingers through his hair again, enjoying the heat of him against her.  Sophia broke away first, gasping for air as Vincent pressed kisses along her jaw, down her neck again as his fingers found the front of her blouse, tugging lightly at the bow first before moving onto the buttons, exposing the black bustier from earlier that week, all filigree and lace.  He pulled back to gaze down at her, and she let her eyes trace the shape of his jaw in the dim lighting from the city below.

His earlier expression of playfulness was lost, for now,  and she was reminded of the night of their first kiss, when he’d watched her marvel at architecture and paintings.  It was as though he was marking this moment in his mind, wanting to remember as much as possible. A dark glimmer of desire was there, too, she realized, more prominent than it ever was previously.  Part of her wanted to let go of him, hide herself. But she’d already bared so much as it was, she reasoned, what did a little more matter?

She reached for his waistcoat instead and undid the buttons with ease, never breaking the gaze as she tugged at his shirt and unbuttoned that too.

Vincent closed the distance between then again and trailed his lips across her neck and collarbone.  She could feel his uneven breaths, warm against her skin as his fingers traced the swirling patterns of the fabric, continuing the motions against her stomach.  Sophia inhaled sharply, the touch teasing as lips met hers again.

“What do you want?” he whispered.

A question with infinite answers, even now.  Her body tingled in exhilaration, anticipation for what could be, all-consuming fire licking at her skin.  

Her answered tumbled from her lips, eager, perhaps too much so, and he obliged, her being engulfed in long-forgotten sensations and touches.  There was nothing except the cool fabric beneath her and his body pressed against hers, her fingers clinging to his hair, his shoulders, his back.

Nothing mattered in that moment except each other, her name like a prayer on his lips as the lights of Paris glittered below.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait, thank you all for your patience!
> 
> Any outtakes for M-rated scenes will be posted in a separate story, as I want to keep the rating the same. So expect a smutty version of this chapter to follow soon!


	20. Chapter 20

The haze of last night was still heavy throughout her body, a sensation she didn't want to lose. Sophia pulled the blankets tighter around her, enjoying the feel of the comforter against her bare skin. She wanted to stay here forever. Freeze this weekend in time, a momentary limbo of just the two of them.

If only such a reality could exist.

She had so many things she wanted to say. So many things she wanted to do. Yet, time was not on their side. Something she would have to reconcile with later.

As much as she wanted to stay curled up, she knew she wouldn't be able to fall back asleep easily. Sophia shifted, careful not to wake the man beside her, and sat up to find Paris bathed in the orange and pink and purple of daybreak. The panoramic scene was incredible, and although she'd seen many views from Vincent's home before, she understood why the designer set this one for the backdrop of the bedroom. It was the other Paris, the one without the Eiffel Tower or Arc de Triomphe, just classical French and European architecture as far as the eye could see.

The other rooms offered views of the landmarks the city was best known for; the space was designed with ego in mind. But here, away from the world, was the rest of the cosmopolitan sprawl. Unconquered, perhaps, in some ways.

Sophia tore her gaze from the window to the man to her left, Vincent still asleep. She let her eyes roam across a face she saw so many times before. She traced shapes and lines with her eyes, watched the way the muted sunlight cast across his face and hair. Narrowed eyes found the tiniest glint of silver near his scalp but she knew better than to point it out to him. He was prideful and she could tell her went to great lengths to hide the color shift.

Her secret now, too.

She wondered how many of them she would collect while she was here, still. Not just from Vincent but from other people. How many secrets she would keep of her own and how long she would be able to contain any of it, all of it. Sophia pulled the blanket tighter against her. The vice-like grip on her heart had a name and it scared her as much as it excited her. All it did was constrict her, wrap itself like a snake around her heart and lungs, squeezing until she couldn't breathe in his presence sometimes. If what she's felt that might the needle entered her skin was anything close to what the Essence felt like, this was stronger and most agonizing.

It wasn't as though she never expected to feel the elation again, or the warmth or joy. Intense and all-consuming, when she let it be. That she hadn't expected it made it all the more meaningful to her. As for last night, she wasn't one of casual physical relationships and wouldn't be here if she wasn't sure of what she felt.

She turned back to the window and watched as Paris woke up.

He deserved to know, when she was ready to tell him. When they had time to discuss a future. If one existed for them together. Sophia watched his chest rise and fall with slow rhythmic breathing and wondered if she could imagine anything else, anyone else. No one came to mind except the man next to her.

Vincent was flawed but they worked well together when his ego let them. Her doubt sat on the other side of the scale in her gut, keeping her from getting ahead of herself. He might not want anything else, she told herself. She preferred certainty but there didn't seem to be an opportune time to get it.

Perhaps it was better this way. She went head-first into her previous relationship, jumped when asked, gave up her life for his. But here, they'd eased into a grey area slowly. While she knew his affection, felt it in the way he held her hand or touched her, heard it in the way he said her name, there was never discussion of what they wanted out of this. She knew too well how easy it was for him to play someone. He was incredibly good at saying and doing exactly what he needed to in order to get what he wanted.

Her fingers gripped the blanket tighter and she willed herself to stop thinking about it so much.

_Enjoy this,_ she chastised.  _Enjoy now. You're getting ahead of yourself, it's only been two months or so. Not to mention he's been genuine with you from the start._

Yet with how long she'd been in Paris, working for him, it felt so much longer. Months of random visits for coffee, working on the exhibit together, almost two years since he'd hired her.

She was going to drive herself mad if she didn't change the direction her thoughts were going.

The bed shifted and she felt lips on her shoulder, working their way to her neck. Sophia felt a shiver run down her spine as Vincent's lips brushed the spot just below her ear. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder.

Neither spoke and she didn't feel compelled to break the silence. She could worry about the future later.

* * *

Sophia checked her phone as she stood on the perimeter of the Hall of Mirrors.

She sorely wished her only visit to Versailles wasn't for a press conference. The bustle and chatter of people getting everything ready took away from the impressive painted ceilings and sculptures from antiquity. Sophia couldn't deny that Vincent had chosen an appropriate location, not only because of his need for drama but because the hall was once used for court ceremonies and other important events by the Sun King. The entire point of a press event was to draw attention, after all, and he was doing just that.

True to her word, she kept to the side rooms and out of sight of cameras or journalists as much as she could. The pink dress, while long, was easier to move in than she first thought and stood out among the staff members dressed in black. She directed people and kept everyone on schedule and out of Vincent's hair alongside Marion. She felt a pang in her chest at the familiarity of it, how she'd done the same only a few months prior at Orsay, and previously every few weeks in New York.

She caught glimpses of Vincent talking to the occasional photographer and allowing photos when asked. The official Q&A was after the unveiling but it was clear to her that some of the more exclusive publications knew the song and dance; the more flattery he received, the more willing he was to bend the rules for a moment before he went out to start the presentation.

Sophia caught his eye occasionally, finding him to be in the middle of a conversation and looking straight at her. Sometimes a line of sight would follow his and she looked away before anything could be made of the lingering gazes. She was under no illusion she would not be written about or recorded in some way but it was his limelight, not hers.

But if he asked, she too would bend her rules.

The decorations for the perfume seemed to blend right into the rest of the colors throughout the room. Red banners hung between the windows,  _Folie_ written in script followed by a feather. Small flag banners ran between the chandeliers, red framed with gold. She couldn't figure out why he went with red when the bottle was blue, an obvious homage to the perfume's source. But perhaps it was best to match the setting rather than the product. She didn't know enough and until now, she hadn't thought about it.

"Well, he's certainly happy," a woman next to Sophia chirped.

The American started slightly and turned to find Marion next to her, the blonde in a sleek black dress with a red blazer. She wore a slim gold belt around her waist, artfully matched with a gold necklace of a similar style. For once, her hair was down.

"He's in his natural habitat," Sophia said, turning her attention from Marion to Vincent.

"I meant every time he looks at you."

Sophia looked down for a moment and brushed her skirt with a hand, hoping her make-up hid enough of her blush.

"A million women, and probably men, would kill to be you, you know."

This was familiar territory, and Marion made no secret of her ambitions. She was Vincent's hand in many things but she was kept at a distance. One that didn't exist for Sophia.

The death line didn't sit well with her. It was too close to the conversation days ago.

Sophia said nothing, knowing silence was the only way out of Marion's rambling thought. Vincent looked at her the same as he usually did. A little longer than normal, perhaps. She thought of how his eyes roamed the length of her body when she was finished dressing earlier that day but could think of nothing amiss.

"If things were different, I like to think I'd be in your shoes. I had intended to get as close as possible but it was clear quite quickly my efforts would have been wasted. Why else hire someone to continue what you first started?"

Usually she had the patience and the wit for Marion. The blonde knew how to get under her skin.  She couldn't insult the way she dressed so she settled for other things instead, searching desperately for weaknesses to exploit. Vincent taught her, yes, but she wondered if Marion would ever refine and soften her skills.

"You'll need better shoes if you want to climb," Sophia remarked, looking pointedly as Marion's ridiculous heels, so high she was teetering in them.

"I can climb in Versace. Besides, I earned enough to stay comfortable in the States for a while and establish myself. Miami's expensive."

"And hot."

"So are the inhabitants," Marion said and winked at her. Sophia laughed and shook her head ever so slightly.

"When does your flight leave?"

"This afternoon, I'm straight to the airport after the presentation."

Sophia nodded, her eyes scanning the space and looking for an out, searching for anyone in need of assistance. No one. She was stuck here.

"Well, for what it's worth, I hope America holds everything you hope for."

"It will, I'm sure of it," Marion replied. "Plenty of footholds on the ladder there, land of opportunity and all that. But France will always have my heart."

She wished she could feel the same about her home. Her heart didn't seem to know what it wanted. But she was sure her home was no longer America, not truly. The uncertainty from the other morning crept back and stayed under her skin, crawled down her spine. Hell, Paris didn't have to be her home, either.

Her eyes fell back onto Vincent and she remembered how New York and London had felt at the art fairs. No different. The locations hadn't mattered, although New York was far more familiar. She was comfortable because she knew who she was with and navigating waters she knew as well as the backstreets of her suburban childhood home. A warm feeling filled her stomach and spread upwards to her chest and she suddenly felt the urge to cry. She worked to slow her breathing and to her relief, Marion didn't say a word.

She probably felt she didn't have to.

A signal was given between technicians and the two women left and entered the nearest sideroom. They had a perfect view of the presentation without being in the line of sight of cameras and phones. The front was orderly, those who came early rewarded with seating and the best camera set-ups, whereas the newer press and marketing people were at the back, standing, clustered together in hopes of being able to see. More than a few perfumers were among the crowd, she knew, having looked over the guest list the previous day. Sophia spotted someone and asked Marion, who nonchalantly said they were the head of a design house before pointing out three more.

"Yes, I know, you're all dying to discover my new perfume," Vincent said as he walked into the room, the crowd parting like the Red Sea to let him pass through. "Once the presentation starts, everyone will get a sample."

The entire scene looked like something out of the Sun King's court, minus the garb and formalities of announcement.

"And I promise you one thing," he turned around when he reached the transition from standing room only to the seated area, and held up his index finger, a smirk falling across his lips. "It will be...instant love!"

Murmurs broke out across the room and Vincent was about to turn around to continue walking when he hesitated. Sophia watched the subtle change in his body as he went from confident to annoyed and Marion tutted softly, clearly seeing the same change.

"You! I know you from somewhere, don't I?" Vincent's towering frame bent over slightly, an attempt at intimidation.

"She's an idiot," Marion muttered. "Thinking that wig and get-up would get her in here..."

Sophia stepped forward slightly, craning her neck to see. Marion was just taller than her but the other woman still had a clear view.

"Who is she?"

Marion scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Audrey Kingsley, that hack of an investigative journalist? The one getting in Vincent's way?"

Sophia squinted and recognized parts of her. Similar build. She had light eyes; she couldn't make out the color. But Kinglsey was blonde, didn't wear glasses, and definitely didn't wear any kind of professional attire. She was with another woman, high-waisted jeans and a cropped blazer, pink and black hair styled to one side of her head.

"Uh, no, I'm sure you don't!" The journalist stammered back.

"She  _is_ an idiot," Sophia whispered back. "She didn't even bother to change her voice...Vincent doesn't forget faces, he makes it a point to..."

The two women watched the exchange a little further before growing bored. Sophia caught a question about where the perfume would be made until it hit mass production and she bit the inside of her cheek. Either he was confident nothing could be done to hurt his plans or he didn't suspect it was Kingsley after all. It didn't take much to put his line about triumph and Napoleon together. As if anyone else in that crowd might not want to figure out where the secret project was being kept.

_And that's why I can't tell you about the floodgates_. Sophia thought.  _The only secrets you keep are the ones that benefit your bank account,_ _mon chéri_.

Sophia's eyes lingered on the two younger women as they hastily left the room when Vincent turned his back on them to continue up to the front of the room.

She listened without truly listening, Vincent's voice commanding the room as he described the perfume, why Karm International chose this product, exclusivity emphasized. Samples were passed around, tiny blue bottles inscribed with  _Folie à deux_. The room was quickly going to become hysterical once the perfume was actually sampled, a parody of a Dionysian bacchanal lacking in wine, and she wasn't sure if she could watch as some of the most influential people in Paris were subjected to this.

Something she helped cause.

Vincent would have found out about the letter anyway, she knew. He still have done all of this, without her, but she wasn't here to stand in his way. She wasn't here to save Paris from him, but from another disaster far worse than a mass orgy. One problem replaced with another.

The moment was fleeting, only enough to cause a stirring in the crowd, she realized. Of course it wouldn't be as strong as it was when Laurent drank it. Collective sounds of bliss and awe, a sudden rush of endorphins. Only a taste, enough for reviews to be positive and intriguing, enough for Vincent to receive praise and admiration.

His eyes seem to glow as he gazed out around the crowd. A part of him was proud. While he had plans for slowly pricing poor people out of their homes, making Paris a paradise and playground for the rich, she couldn't help but wonder if it was something other than money driving him. If perhaps a deeper part of him wanted to give that amazing feeling to people, albeit at a premium price. She remembered the rush, the intensity, how her mind was flooded with nothing but him for a moment. How her veins burned with longing, an eternal fire stoked before doused with ice water. If this whole plan was more about something intangible than he cared to admit.

Vincent's eyes fell on her and she forgot about the crowd between them. Was he testing her, to see if she had been false in her words? Watching her for any sign of revulsion, disgusting, perhaps with only herself? He wouldn't find it. She meant what she said that night and stood by it now.

He looked away first, either out of satisfaction or distraction, and concluded the presentation for questions.

* * *

Everything was already in full-swing by the time they arrived later that night to the release party.  Although Vincent had not begun mass production, he  _did_ have enough orders filled to create scarcity and exclusivity. The promotional model would be based on that alone until he picked a factory willing to work with him. Most did not want to sacrifice their decades-long contracts with other design houses just for one line that wasn't certain to do well.

It was messy but it was a problem for another night.

No press were allowed to this event, although that wouldn't stop anyone from sharing on social media. The building was plain, the only evidence of it being anything but ordinary were the pair of bouncers outside and the music and bass bleeding into the street from the open double doors. A guestlist was strictly followed, as it was with the exhibition, and people were being turned away left and right, their evening plans shattered due to a private event.

A few press people, those who had gotten exclusives with Vincent earlier that day, she recognized, lingered outside. They wouldn't get to be inside to talk to anyone else but it did give them a chance to get the CEO on his own for a second time.

This time, Sophia had no choice but to smile and pose. She tilted her head at the angle she knew to be her best one, her side pressed to Vincent's.

"What's the perfume meant to capture?" One of them asked, and then amended. "How would you describe what a  _folie à deux_  might feel like?"

Vincent's brow furled for a moment before he turned to Sophia, his head tilted ever so slightly as one hand lifted her chin. His mouth hovered over hers but they never kissed, breaths mingling in anticipation never to be met.

"It's the moment right before a kiss, right before a fall. Imagining nothing except the person your heart seeks the most. A natural phenomena that can quickly consume everything in its path, leaving nothing but madness, driven by a need for someone else. Time stands still and all gives way to feeling their heartbeat, hearing the quickening of their breath, knowing nothing would be the same without them either way. That come what may, the passion and emotion are all that matter."

She felt her cheeks burn when she realized he hadn't turn to speak to the person who asked, but rather kept his focus on  _her_. She was aware of camera flashes and clicks, how hard her breathing was, how much she wanted to be anywhere but here.

Any other questions were drowned out by the rushing of blood through her ears as she focused on regaining whatever composure she had left. Vincent's hand rested on the small of her back and directed her towards the door when he was finished. She stepped through the double doors and followed the sound of music through the foyer, down a short corridor, and through a set of heavy red curtains.

The club reminded her of Opera Garnier, a chandelier over the dance floor, red drapes hiding the oculus above it. Booths ringed the perimeter, cast in a red light, the balcony above housing smaller tables. The double staircase across the room met at the top with a small balcony overlooking the dance floor. The bar was dark wood and tufted leather panels, cast in the same red light as the seating across from it. It was small but exclusive, to be sure; she could tell from one look at the staff that they were used to only handling a certain caliber of clientele.

The party was really just an opportunity to do other deals and solidify relationships with current partners. Unlike the exhibit, however, Sophia found herself remaining in Vincent's orbit, not knowing enough people to make ideal conversation.

Her dress didn't help, she supposed; she was slightly more uncomfortable than she anticipated. The bodice itself was fine, red fabric framed in gold lace, her shoulders bare. But the skirt left one of her thighs exposed and made for a more daring statement she didn't normally make. It was flirtatious more than playful; even she had to admit that it hinted to the multiple sides of the perfume, how thin the line was with affection, adoration, and lustful obsession.

They retreated to the upper level after pleasantries were exchanged with the most important guests, settling into a corner. Sophia was thankful for the chance to sit, her ankle less than cooperative after the long morning and afternoon. She anticipated and tried to prepare as much as she could, but there was only so much ice and painkillers could do.

_So much for dancing_ , she thought, her eyes falling to the crowd of people changing their rhythm to the next song.

Vincent leaned towards her and said, "I apologize if earlier was...too much in front of others."

"Just startling. I'll be seen no matter what; you're kind of a public figure. If I can avoid limelight, I will, if only for current reasons."

She left it unspoken that someone could, with enough resources, dig up everything else. Not that it would serve much purpose except to serve as recognition or paint her as a tragic figure. Unless the political backlash was necessary and she was simply caught in the crossfire.

"It's really only a concern come campaign time next year," she elaborated, shrugging slightly. "Party politics and other nonsense. I care more about being seen by the...wrong...people in Paris than I do gossip columns."

_I'd rather neither of us be killed because I was reckless_.

"Shouldn't you be down there?" Sophia asked after they ordered drinks, poking at the ice and lime in her gin and tonic. She ordered only to sip at it more than anything, preferring to stay sober. Her eyes fell on the people below, his own guests, left to their own devices.

"Should? Yes, perhaps in a little while. I'd like to stay here for now, with you." Vincent kissed her temple and she leaned into him. "I prefer your company than that of anyone else in this building."

She leaned into his warmth, wishing she wore a dress with at least a full skirt, if not something with proper sleeves. Realizing they would be here a while longer, Sophia took off her shoes and curled up on the couch. She occasionally took pictures or watched what was going on around them but she took more enjoyment out of finally having a chance to talk to him for the first time for more than five minutes. The day was long and busy and she wanted to take advantage of whatever time they were allotted together, even if it was semi-public.

"What was going on with that journalist earlier, the one you stopped for?" She asked, setting her phone down after taking a few shots of the party.

"I was under the impression I knew her or met her before," Vincent said. "Apparently one of her aspirations was to get an interview with me, from some special interest magazine."

"You forgot your contacts, didn't you?"

"...perhaps," he pressed a kiss to the side of her head again, lingering this time. "But I didn't need them to see how you well that dress suited you. You're very beautiful in pink."

She murmured a thank you and hoped the dim lighting hid the fact that her cheeks were turning that very color. She didn't often wear lighter colors, especially pink, preferring blacks and greys and darker colors in general. Sophia nestled closer as Vincent's free hand played with strands of her hair, hastily tied back in a half-up half-down style. The silence between them felt heavy, as if he had more he wanted to say, but nothing else came.

"Sophia?"

She hummed in response, turning her head in his direction. Vincent brushed his nose against hers before pressing his forehead to hers. He only ever did that when they were truly alone, a new gesture that never failed to take her off-guard since their first night together a few days prior. It was gentle, affectionate, and her heart ached in longing, wanting nothing else but to say the words she was so afraid to.

"I—"

Before he could continue, his phone vibrated in his breast pocket. Vincent let out a slow breath through his nose, likely contemplating on letting it go to voicemail as he so often did around her.  He pulled away and took the phone out of his pocket, frowning when he read the name. He stood and walked away from the table, out of earshot, but she didn't miss the flash of anger across his features.

She hastily put her shoes back on and stood, waiting for him to finish. Her eyes fell to her phone for a second, lighting up with text after text from Leo, and then TJ.

He strode back to her in three long steps, eyes never leaving his phone. "That wretched journalist Laurent hired broke into the lab," he hissed. "She took him with her, apparently, and she's had help in finding the location. I have to take care of this."

_It wasn't exactly_ hard  _considering you basically_ gave  _it to her_ , Sophia thought bitterly.

"You're walking into a trap, surely you know that," she said, her bitterness turning to anger.

_Don't be this stupid, Vincent. Please_.

His ego would get the better of him if he let it, yet again. For someone who planned so far ahead, he was incredibly blind where his pride was concerned. Their night was ruined because of Audrey Kingsley, because of the Essence, because of so many things she didn't have the wherewithal to be furious about. He was so close to the end, to stepping back again and letting the perfume work its way through Paris.

But what did that matter, really? If Kingsley didn't expose him, the Knights would. The Knights wouldn't see his actions in the same light she did; she saw the purpose of distraction, of someone else beating the mysterious suspect to taking over Paris. To the city being a playground to the wealthy rather than submerged. Ignorant bliss over wanton destruction.

The fury in his eyes almost made her knees buckle. Even their dispute over the Essence didn't warrant such a withering glare.

"And if she destroys it, I have  _nothing_ ," he snapped.

The words hit her so hard it felt as if he'd punched her in the gut. The agony of his words hit her like a semi-truck and she stared at him, mouth slightly agape and eyes prickling with searing tears as she fought to gain control over her facial features for the first time in years. Her blue eyes traced him from shoes to head and Sophia blinked back the large tears she desperately wanted to shed. Now wasn't the time for this.

Vincent reached for her, realization clear in his face at what he just said to her, but Sophia stepped back. She wiped her eyes and schooled her features as best she could. He hadn't left yet, hesitant, but she felt as if he might as well be a million miles away.

She was nothing to him. She meant nothing. Of course she did. How could she mean anything to someone like him, who could buy anything he ever wanted, who stopped at almost nothing to achieve his ends?

Sophia fought to keep her expression in check, her gut wrenching as she longed to do nothing more than sob. Claws gripped at her throat, breathing almost non-existent as her heart ached to erase those words from her memory. He was so much to her, didn't he know that? Didn't he know how much he meant to her? He was her beacon in a city that wasn't her home, the only familiar thing about Paris for her, the only part of Paris she truly loved.

She was an idiot to think he was capable of anything remotely normal, anything human. He manipulated people for a living, could charm someone into believing anything he wanted them to.

"Then go," she said, icy fury gripping her, removing any traces of a tremor in her voice.

There was a fleeting glimmer of a plea in his eyes, followed by a chilling steadiness. This wasn't over, and she wouldn't get out of talking about it no matter how hard she tried. She knew that resolve from his business dealings, when someone was trying to renegotiate despite a contract already in place.

He walked past her and she felt eyes on her again. Sophia glanced over her shoulder to find him looking at her briefly, the smallest trace of regret across his face. He was gone almost instantly and she was left on her own, cursing herself for getting so attached to a man who could never truly return her feelings.

* * *

Vincent scrambled out of the tunnel, his thoughts on self-preservation and the woman he left behind as he reached the surface of Paris. Hands gripped him as he reached the evening air, yanking him to his feet harshly. He was asked if his name was Vincent Karm and promptly thrown into a set of handcuffs.

Yet again, he left behind someone mad at him. He never got the chance to apologize and explain, to work out a situation he didn't entirely understand. Sophia overrode his senses when she was with him, reminded him of everything outside of himself. He had so much he wanted to say to her, wanted to plan with her.

Their romantic relationship was still new, only a couple of months in the making, but he worked with her long enough to know she was someone he more than tolerated. He enjoyed her company, her mind, her very presence in his life. He wanted her with him, wanted to wake up every day and see her next to him, feel her hand in his, her skin against his.

But that was impossible now, wasn't it, he mused. The handcuffs were tight against his wrists and he knew if he moved too much, the metal would cut into his flesh.

Raphael Laurent and Audrey Kingsley looked triumphant. Vincent swore he never saw TJ Carter smile brighter than the grin he had plastered on his face as he hugged the journalist and thanked her. The designer glared at Vincent as he said, "Au revoir, you despicable vulture."

He wondered if Sophia would call him that, too. Was he just a monster to her too, now? Would she ever look at him without anger, or even fear, in her eyes? So many people feared and hated him and yet Sophia Cousland looked at him without a single trace of either one. Her eyes were the color of icy water but somehow her gaze warmed him like a ray of sunlight on a cool autumn morning, refreshing and yet familiar, as if he'd known the feeling his entire life.

It had all gone wrong. The riddle, the Essence, his contract with Carter, his present and possible future with a woman he never expected to care for. His pencil-thin focus on what he wanted and letting no one stand in his way blinding him, melting the wax wings he'd built over years and years of dubious ethics and ruthless ambition.

He was allowed one text before the gendarme took his phone. His thumb hovered over Sophia's name, her last name long since removed from her contact listing. She stopped being Ms. Cousland a long time ago, before he'd ever taken her to the Louvre, before he watched her across the gallery in awe of how well she seemed to fit into his life.

_Even if I revealed anything, would she ever believe me? She'll think them pleas of a madman._

Instead, he picked Eugene, who no doubt already knew of the situation. The man simply texted, "Take care of her. Call my lawyer," before handing over his device and wallet to the officer.

Vincent was pushed into the back of a police car when he asked for the officer to be careful with his suit. He'd already torn the shoulder slightly at the seam when he was pulling himself up onto the street. The officer grunted and slammed the door shut. He stared straight ahead, chest tight with anxiety, gut clenching regret as though it was his last meal.

Regret that he, once again, never got the chance to properly say goodbye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends Season 1. 
> 
> I just wanted to take a chance and thank everyone who's been reading and has stuck it out, or even anyone just picking this up for the first time who made it this far. Obviously this story isn't finished, by any means, as I have the in-between and Season 2 to cover. But this story is over a year in the making now and this was my first attempt at a large AU in years. Thank you for your patience, your time, your kudos, and your comments, they mean so much!


	21. Chapter 21

_ August _

The devastation wore off by day three.

Days one and two were spent in bed, where she stared off at the ceiling high above her, sunlight warm on her skin but hardly comforting.  Thoughts of food and getting up and showering were replaced with the overwhelming questions she didn’t have answers to. 

Like what she was supposed to do now.

Sophia let the choking thoughts take her, allowed the pain to wash over her, familiar and yet new all at once.  She was never sure if she was distraught over possibly never seeing Vincent without a barrier between them again or pained by the knowledge of his folly.  Or perhaps still, burdened with her own emotions towards him, the anger and indignation at their final words, the agony in yearning for someone she could never have at her side again.  Not without discussing what she meant to him.

If she meant anything at all.

She was brought back to her apartment in the Third Arrondissement.  She didn’t want the penthouse, the large empty space so foreign to her, the space of a man she was furious at.  To be trapped in a place of his own making. It was more secure, certainly, but it was the first place the press looked for her, according to Eugene.

Not to mention it was now swarming with national police officers and detectives.  She was thankful she’d packed before the party, which made Eugene’s task a little easier when picking up the dogs. 

Esteban was glued to Theodora’s side, she noticed, constantly looking around for his master.

_ You’re not the only one, little Prince… _

Sophia still didn’t have an appetite but she couldn’t lay around in a protected bubble forever.  And she wasn’t the only one hit hard by the arrest; she saw the circles under Eugene’s eyes, three-day old stubble on his cheeks.  He seemed as though he wanted to say something about having spent two days in bed, barely drinking water and not eating while he had no choice but to do what needed to be done.

Instead, he said it was nice to see her finally up on her feet, that there were groceries in the fridge, and he would be back to check on her in a few hours.  She appreciated his tact, whether genuine or otherwise, implicit trust that she would, eventually, be okay.

She needed to be.  She had a meeting with a lawyer later and was overseeing the  _ Vanitas _ closing afterwards.  Vincent’s assets couldn’t be seized; the papers she’d signed only a few days ago ensured that.

Sophia sipped her coffee, her first cup in days, and went back into her bedroom after Eugene left.  

What  _ did _ she do now?  After the trial?  

She’d never considered her future, not beyond...well, however long it took for the forgeries to be finished. For the suspect to be found.  There was never a date in mind. Her life in Paris didn’t have an end in sight, no matter how she looked at it.

But she didn’t have citizenship and she was no longer employed. She couldn’t be employed by a convict. She might have an office at Karm International but she never worked for the company.  She worked for Vincent directly. And that meant she had limited time to either get something new or pack up and leave.

Anguish ran through body and terror twisted her stomach as she thought about what she would be facing.  Losing future clients as soon as they heard her name, a tainted reputation she would have to work twice as hard to clean, forever known for her association with a man who tried to take over Paris.  

She pushed away the urge to pull her suitcases from underneath her bed. It was there, quiet, whispering over her shoulder.  _ Run. _ _ Run away and don’t look back. _

And start again?  For a third time? At thirty?

Who would hire her after working for Vincent fucking Karm?  Who would touch her with a ten foot pole?

She was a fool.  How could she have been so stupid as to fall for her boss?  For someone who saw people as a means to an end, not as individuals?  Falling for a man who planned to throw Paris into a whirlwind of ecstasy and joy marked by inflation and empty wallets.

A man who spoke about art as if it were alive, who held his dog and nurtured the animal as a parent would a child.  Who comforted her in the pain he had inadvertently caused in the first place. Who kept her safe. Who was drawn to her not by her appearance but by her mind, by her capacity and drive.  

So much to say to him.  Anger seemed to come so easily now.  He put the Essence first and he only had himself to blame.  He hurt her but she handed him the capacity to do it in the first place, and this time he wasn’t around to fix it.  

Sophia looked down at the contents of her mug, the liquid as dark as her thoughts.  She didn’t have the energy to cry anymore. She felt empty and numb as she reminded herself to just get through today.  

Leaving would solve nothing. She’d given everything up for someone,  _ again _ , only this time running wasn’t possible.

Or rather, it was, but there was too much here.  She had Alexandre, these forgeries, this weird business about floods.  Not only did she always finish what she started, she was a fool to think these Knights would  _ let  _ her leave, knowing what she did.

Sophia ran a hand through her hair, pushing it away from her eyes as she pushed away the pressure she’d get from Alexandre too.  Considering their last conversation, she was sure he would have two cents to contribute to her already-heavy conscience. This was still better, she knew, than the alternative of a clandestine organization pulling strings and making threats.  

Lesser of two evils.

_ I get to eat my own words.  Just shower. Get through the lawyer meeting first.  Get the paintings. That’s all you have to do.  _

_ Just for today. _

* * *

Empty museums always unnerved Sophia and Orsay was no different.  She followed the guard to the gallery she wanted, glancing at the sculptures along the way.  Outside of the gallery housing the exhibit, the original home of the museum’s the Impressionist pieces, Sophia’s eyes fell on a painting she’d studied for years.  Degas’  _ The Ballet Class _ .  The viewer looked on as an instructor taught a ballet class, a figure on the left sitting on the piano and reaching behind her as she waited for her turn to dance in front of the teacher.  A scene uninterrupted.

A sister piece,  _ The Dance Class _ , hung in the Metropolitan; that painting had a dancer checking the sheet music, another doing a difficult spin, parents in the background talking to their children.  It was full of life and motion and the viewer’s eye never managed to stay still too long. It was less impressionistic than his other paintings but still a testament to his skill as a painter.

Although started before the New York painting, the one in front of her was finished a few years afterwards; the difference in style was a dead give-away.  There were differences in the composition, in the arrangement of the figures in the background. One of which was the instrument in the bottom left corner; the Paris painting had a piano, while the New York one had a bass.  At the foot of the piano, a small water jug was exactly where it should be.

Except for the frogs peeking over the rim.

She remembered seeing Catherine work on a painting for the Second Plague but she never got a good look at the entire piece.  The other woman tended to keep her forgeries partially under a sheet in the first few months of their time together.

An illegitimate painting, blatant to only her.

As long as she was in Paris, she would see them.  Know them. And yet she’d never recognize any of the intended audience members, considering she only knew Alexandre.

She heard her name and she quickly caught up to her escort, her thoughts immediately turning back to her task at hand.  

Less than an hour later, Sophia was finalizing the inventory checklist.  She accounted for the change in the lineup; Vincent’s decision to hang something else and give her the small landscape Catherine painted was, in fact, seamless.

He was meticulous in so much, so much so that her gut sank in realization that his own record keeping would be his downfall. 

The meeting with the lawyer earlier left her a little dazed, on top of seeing one of Catherine’s forgeries hanging out in a museum collection.  After his sentencing, Sophia would be responsible for properties, shares, business decisions, and everything outside of the actual Karm International corporation.  The papers she signed were drawn up because without someone to hand everything off to, a power vacuum would form easily. That wasn’t to say anyone would take her seriously, she knew, but it safeguarded what the police couldn’t take; they were her assets on paper, hers to take care of in representation of a trust.  They were not Vincent’s, not anymore, and that’s what mattered most. 

She was so absorbed in her own thoughts she didn’t hear the clicking of heels on wood until the figure was already halfway across the gallery.  Sophia internally groaned when she recognized Sarah Zembe but kept her face controlled. The dark circles she couldn’t entirely hide with makeup were a dead giveaway as it was and she didn’t want to give away anything else.  Especially not to someone who was technically a colleague.

Sarah’s pace was murderous, never halting as she said, “You worked for him the whole time, you deceitful, conniving bitch.”

Her words echoed in the empty gallery, blank walls reflecting fury back onto itself.  Sophia let it wash over her, recalling the warning from Alexandre on never telling Sarah who she worked for. She could have called her out months ago, back when  _ Vanitas _ began, back when she first began appearing in gossip magazines with Vincent; Sarah chose now, which the American found to be either very strategic or very stupid.  Sophia figured it was the latter. Vincent wouldn’t have hired someone incompetent as his personal assistant.

“I wasn’t at liberty to discuss my clients,” Sophia said as she locked eyes with Sarah, steeling herself for what she knew she deserved.

“Lies of omission are still  _ lies _ .  Did you think I’d never find out?  You worked for him this whole time,” the curator snapped.  “More than worked, the way some outlets write about you.”

She tapped a few times on her phone and held out the device.  The screen showed Sophia on Vincent’s arm at the closing of  _ Faust _ .  What felt like an eternity ago was only, in fact, less than a month ago.

“You used me.  I did you a favor by critiquing your article, I thought we could be colleagues, and you repay me how?  By getting me to tell you about the letters. None of this would have happened if not for you!”

Sophia winced as Sarah’s words grew even louder, guilt punching her in the gut.  It would have all been the same, she knew, but she was the one who tried obtaining the letters on Vincent’s behalf. She was the one who heard the opportunity and presented it to him like a present on Christmas. He wanted a new project and she’d given him one.

_ It still doesn’t matter whether I helped or not.  This was better. And now there’s nothing left to… _

She was culpable and she would have to live with that.  But Vincent made his choices. He was the manipulator, never the puppet. 

“He would have known without me.  We both know how many informants he has,”  Sophia’s response was softer but her last words were as sharp as her glare.

Sarah knew how connected her former employer was.  You couldn’t work for the man and not realize the power, legal and otherwise, he had.  

“Well, I have a duty to  _ my  _ employer to see to it that you never set foot in this museum again, Sophia.  You’ve done enough. I’d pity you if I didn’t hate you.”

She didn’t  _ want  _ pity anyway but she wasn’t about to tell Sarah that.  Both of them were in difficult straits on opposite sides of the problem. Sophia could see the fury burning just behind Sarah’s eyes, hatred and blame, deserved in part, but not entirely. Left to be professional for the sake of her role.  If the other woman noticed her earlier wince or contritness, it was clouded by her memories and knowledge of what working with Vincent was like, further removing any sympathy.

“He never does think about the collateral damage of his plans.  Anyone who worked with him is getting bad press,” Sophia said, raising her arms as if to shrug, but the gesture was stiff, awkward rather than nonchalant.  “But-“

The feeling to tell someone,  _ anyone, _ about what was to come ran through her like a bolt of lightning. If there was anyone who would actually understand her work, it would be Sarah.  On a technical and scientific level. She’d never done the x-rays or paint testing, only the connoisseurship and symbol-searching, the provenance digging. Sophia never painted the forgeries herself but Sarah had the equipment, and the backing of an authoritative institution.  She could do the other side of it; with the paintings hanging, the intended audience would see them. Or she could work backwards, even; she wouldn’t be hindered by a specific role the way Sophia was.

Sarah cut her off and hissed, “You made your choice.”  She turned on her heel, leaving as loudly as she came. “It’s time you got used to the consequences.”

She couldn’t leave.  If the curator left, Sophia would lose her only chance in passing along what she knew to someone whose hands weren’t tied. The trust from Vincent gave her resources but she was under a microscope until further notice.  The press would dog her, questions would be asked. But Sarah? It would be only natural for her to look into provenance, into authentication, if only for the sake of her institution.

Sophia gathered the rest of her things quickly and followed after Sarah.  “Sarah.”

The other woman didn’t stop, but the slight tilt of her head told Sophia she’d heard her.  She was just pretending not to have. 

“Sarah!” Sophia called again, louder, catching the attention of a passing intern.  

Sarah turned and glared at Sophia for being loud.  She stopped long enough for the American to close the distance.

“Can you at least listen on why…” Sophia began, adjusting her bag on her shoulder as she fought to catch her breath.

She needed to do more than run around the waterways.  She was incredibly out of shape.

“I know why.  You have some rescue story like everyone else,” the curator turned on her heel and appraised Sophia once from foot to head, taking in her outfit.  Sophia did her best to look presentable; a white blouse with cuts in the sleeves, held together with tiny black bows, black capris, and, for once, practical shoes  Sarah’s gaze felt like an infrared scan that went beyond taking in her physical appearance. “He handed you a dream wrapped in gold on a silver platter scattered with diamonds.  Promises of whatever you needed, as long as you did his bidding. And now, you’re paying for your choices.”

Sarah turned and started to walk away again. 

_ She needs to know! _

“He hired me to find forgeries.”

Sophia’s words were enough to stop the curator in her tracks.  She turned and looked at the American incredulously before searching the passage gallery with narrowed eyes, finding no one else around.  She didn’t budge, a silent demand for an explanation for words capable of bringing shame to an institution with centuries of history.

_ Now that I  _ finally  _ have your full attention... _

“Check  _ The Ballet Class _ .  Test the paints with carbon dating.  Test the coloration. Compare past photographs and x-rays and brushstrokes.  Someone is playing the system of authentication and authority for their own purpose, their own message.”  Sophia’s patience was thin now, and she hoped the frustration slowly turning into a simmering anger would lend the situation at least a consideration.  “I don’t know who or why— _ lies _ ,  _ such sweet sweet lies _ , she thought—but  _ that’s  _ what he had me doing.   _ That’s  _ what I’ve dedicated my time to while I’ve been here.”

Surely Sarah knew as well as she how seriously Vincent took the arts, how much he prided himself and his home on the art the city was known for.  No one threw around the suggestion of forgeries lightly—it was what ruined Knoedler in New York some four years prior when she first returned, a 165 year legacy gone—and allegations in a museum’s halls were dangerous if anyone overheard.

“Yes, I had a debt he erased.  But I’m here to begin with because of forgeries circulating around Paris.  Blatantly.”

Sarah seemed calmer but disgust crossed her features for a moment.  “That’s not  _ all _ -”

Sophia glared at the other woman and cut her off.  “ _ Everything else  _ was secondary.”

She didn’t have to defend her choice to Sarah, she knew well enough.  She didn’t have to justify why she cared for Vincent as much as she did.  It was expected of her to be a character witness, even just outside of the courtroom, and she would rather save her energy for when that time came.  Her intimate relationship that came from a professional one had no bearing on this conversation, nor was it any of Sarah’s business.

Other people would stick their noses into that, anyway.

Understanding reached Sarah’s eyes, wide in awe at the idea of someone loving Vincent Karm.  “You care about him,” she murmured, her words tinged with something between shock and disgust.  “Or have been manipulated enough to do so. Somehow I doubt that, though. There’s no desperation when you talk about him.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the gambit of pleas and claims of adoration.  But whether I do or not is none of your concern.” Sophia walked, going to pass Sarah and head out of the museum, but stopped, looking the other woman in the eyes.  “Test the painting. And if you want to talk, you know where to reach me.”

She left the room and cast one sidelong glance at Catherine’s almost-perfect copy of a Degas as she walked out of the museum.  The heat was blistering, the sun too bright, and the air heavy. Tourists lingered as they tried to make contingency plans, not having checked the hours before arriving only to find it closed.  

She hoped none of them were there because they were journalists or paparazzi.  Then again, the latter weren’t as inconspicuous. They wouldn’t exactly stand out among the people with DSLRs and multiple lenses, snapping shots of architecture and Parisian life.

Eugene lingered near the door, sunglasses tucked into his shirt collar, his tie long forgotten but his face finally clean-shaven.

“Where to?” He asked when she arrived at his side.

She’d fought him earlier about an escort, about needing someone with her.  But neither of them were good alone, not right now. They each needed their purpose if they were going to survive what was to come.  And his purpose was to serve and fix problems she couldn’t deal with.

“Home, I think.  There’s so much for me to…” She shook her head.  “I don’t think he actually expected for this to happen.  We spent more time discussing my files. I don’t know where to begin.  You do so much for him, surely you...would you be able to...”

She hated asking but she knew Vincent kept secrets, even from his attorneys and employees.  And certainly from her. She had no right to pry after only a few months of being together and deep down, she wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know all of his dealings.  But the document she signed and his arrest stripped that away, leaving her without a choice but to learn them. 

If anyone was likely to know the most, it would be Eugene. 

Eugene nodded his head in the direction of the car, a smaller and less obvious BMW 5-series, parked nearby.  While not the Maybach when it came to creature comforts or road noise, it was certainly far less eye-catching.  He didn’t protest or appear shocked; such expressions were rare with him. He changed direction as quickly as he was asked to.  He nodded once and gave her what passed as a reassuring, if exhausted, smile. “I’ll explain what I can.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, readers, for your patience. I know my updates have slowed down but I have no intention of giving up on finishing my larger stories. Mostly Vincent and Sophia filler this time around. Enjoy!

_October_

Vincent knew every inch of his cell by now.  He knew the number of bricks comprising the room, knew how many tiles the floor was comprised of.  It was four strides to the door from the window, and two across. He had little to pass the time except his own mind and _Le Monde_ , the newspaper delivered daily after the guards were through with it.

At least La Santé was renovated.  He’d had people end up here over the years for him and from what he recalled, it was a cesspool.  Despite the facelift, it was still a prison, and guards took every chance to remind the inmates of that.

His trial was in two months but they refused to release him from custody until then.  He couldn’t blame them; even with the remainder of his assets frozen and his passport locked in a safe, he would have found a way to flee.  He was owed favor upon favor by politicians and businessmen, legal and illicit alike, and they all had the means to get him out of France.

His lawyer was good but not good enough to get him out of this.  

Vincent took a second glance through the newspaper as he took the four strides across the small room leisurely.  He’d finally stopped appearing in the first three pages and he wasn’t entirely sure if he was insulted, relieved, or both.  By the time people almost forgot about him, his trial would start and the frenzy would begin anew.

Sophia hadn’t escaped the scrutiny, however.  He’d stopped seeing her photos or mentions of her almost entirely but today was seemingly different.  After the announcement of his trial, he noticed articles on TJ Carter, on others, on Sophia. Thankfully Eugene was spared but that was purely due to the man’s ability to blend in.  Today’s newspaper contained something on Sophia and Vincent ignored the article earlier on purpose. The idea of Sophia being dragged further into this for the sake of a story burned a hole in his chest.  She’d already lived this before.

She hadn’t visited or called.  The last vision he had of her was cold fury, her back straight and jaw set.  It was different than the passionate ire she gave him, the pushback from disagreeing with him, keeping him in check. From the light that seemed to come from deep within her when she let her mask fall and display pure joy or enthusiasm.

It was hurt.  Pain. Realization.

Regret sat heavy in his chest for the first time in over a decade.  The only time he felt anything at all in that time was when he partook in vice.  Nothing else woke up the parts of him that were buried beneath abandoned plans and memories of a different time.  He did things for the sake of them, for the sake of the euphoria, just to remind himself he was capable of anything other than the leaded weight of a life without the man he once loved.

Now that vice was replaced with her.  She was intoxicating, in mind and body.  She could be doing anything and as long as he was near her, he was inexplicably content.  She reminded him of details he would otherwise forget if he wrapped himself in his ideas, grounded him.  He visited her office, drank her coffee, and felt as though he could speak to her frankly. She was one of the few who understood how his mind worked and didn’t say yes just to appease him.

If he was to have nothing else for the rest of his life except her, he might just die happy.  

He shouldn’t have said what he did.  So many unsaid things stood between them and all were a better option than putting the Essence before her.  But he couldn’t take them back. He knew that too well.

Even if he admitted how he felt rather than pushed her away, it wouldn’t be the same.  Everything shifted and while he was persistent, Sophia was the wronged party. It would be up to her to make her decision once she heard what he needed to say.

Vincent sighed.  He never worried over something this way, hadn’t in a very long time.  Sleep wasn’t easy anymore and he sometimes found himself waking with her name on his lips and his chest heavy with longing.

Everything would have been so much easier if he had given in that fateful night.  If he’d simply kissed her in the catacombs and let his emotions overtake him. Conveyed everything he kept so well hidden in a single gesture.  But he hadn’t.

Instead, he waited and let truth smack him in the face.

He laid his intentions bare ever since, doing everything he could think of to demonstrate that he did, in fact, trust her.  He watched her eyes shine and her lips turn into an almost-permanent grin as she revelled in their private tour of the Louvre.  Both of them give a glimpse of what life could be for them.

Until he let pride take over.

If he could take back his rash behavior, he’d kiss her instead, tell her how much she meant to him, how much he loved her.  He had so many opportunities to do that and squandered every one of them.

He should focus on his defense, on anything else.  Vincent Karm didn’t have a conscience. Regret was fruitless.  Yet it gripped him all the same.

Vincent frowned as he found the page with the article again, Sophia’s picture staring back at him with a cool gaze and a set expression.  It was a headshot from an article back when she worked in New York, judging from the background. She looked more like the woman he met that day rather than the woman he knew now.

_Of all the things we discussed, I never told you what mattered._

He raised a hand to his lips, his finger tracing his bottom lip in thought for a moment.  Feeling the echo of her warmth. He missed her touch, her soft lips. He tasted what it was like to be under her skin, saw a glimpse of the woman he knew laid beneath all of her cold and professional demeanor.  A passion she saved only for things closest to her, that only showed itself when she was discussing artists, their works, or their lives. The kind that wove its way into her words and stuck him in the heart because it made her eyes light up.  It was as if all she needed to survive was a canvas and a story.

A story he very much wanted to be a part of.  But not like this. Not as another footnote. He very much didn’t do footnotes.

Vincent drew his hand away from his mouth and rearranged the newspaper, holding the edges tighter than necessary as he skimmed the article.

_“The American art historian seems to have a history of tragic romances with powerful men.  Ms. Cousland is known for her connection and relationship with the disgraced CEO Vincent Karm.  However, this is not her first foray with public scandal._

_The daughter of an artist/curator and a well-to-do contractor, Sophia Cousland was set to marry Senator Richard Ingram before her move to Paris.  The two were together for five years and split back in 2010 after scandal broke about the affair with his then-fellow-staff-member, now wife, Charlotte.  The story was purchased and kept quiet for the sake of Ingram’s campaign but anyone familiar with D.C. gossip remembers the fallout._

_And yet again, Ms. Cousland seems to have set her sights not only higher but abroad.  It has come to light that Vincent Karm hired her a few years ago as his private art advisor and keeper of many illustrious artworks.  Within recent months, around the time of the well-received_ Vanitas _at the_ _Musée d'Orsay, the curator was seen quite close to Mr. Karm; the two were seen leaving the event early.  The two were first introduced in New York back in 2013._

_Vincent Karm, net worth of over €1 million, is a far jump from her ex-fiance.  Although almost a decade apart in age, the two made no secret of their relationship.  They were seen publicly for some time prior to Mr. Karm’s arrest back in May for attempts to use a biochemical substance, among other charges._

A sound of disgust worked its way up his throat and Vincent folded the newspaper up before dropping it on the cot as if it burned him.  Sophia’s past didn’t matter. Painting her in a bad light was going to serve as filler and add intrigue to the trial. She was distanced enough from the entire project, as she asked to be, and thus wouldn’t be of use to the prosecution.  Other people would be, such as TJ, but not her.

This damaged her connection with Vasiley though. If they looked into Sophia enough, things would unravel and quickly.  Unless there were connections he didn’t know about, which was more than likely. He cursed the bars that held him yet again, powerless to help her.

Vincent’s eyes caught on something underneath his pillow and he raised an eyebrow as he reached for it.  A photograph. The corner was worn and the picture was creased from being folded but it was new, otherwise.

It was Sophia, holding Esteban.  He’d taken that picture discreetly after dinner the weekend before the press conference.  Eugene smuggled it in for him the last time he visited.

Vincent learned more about her in three days than he did in almost two years, moments stolen from the world in their own world.  Where she liked to be touched and how, her patience for research until her own thoughts spun webs around her, how she ate her breakfast pastries and watched Paris come to life below, how she snuggled with Theodora in the evening. Playing house with her was shockingly natural, given how long he’d lived alone.

She told him the full story about Richard when he asked.  He didn’t need a newspaper to know her past. There was nothing shameful, only pain, a life unraveled with a single treacherous moment.  

He had months to dwell on the same connection the stupid article made.  Yet again, she was hurt and tossed aside. Only this time, it was for an object rather than a person.  He strung her along all the while and left her for something that didn’t truly matter.

He knew that now. Just as he knew how pointless his argument with Paul was that night.

He tucked the photograph away in his breast pocket and patted it once. Vincent kept his fingers against the jacket, the fine wool and cashmere soft under his touch.

It was a mistake he made again and again, pride before love.  

Never again.

* * *

Sophia missed New York autumns.  She missed Central Park, a single patch of color in a city of grey skies, missed the ridiculous excitement for Pumpkin Spice anything (a true signal fall started for the retail world), how that cafe near her apartment always had fresh cranberry bread.  She’d found a substitute in Paris but it wasn’t the same. She craved apples from an upstate farm, longed for the neighborhood decorations and smell of fallen leaves, the colors brightening as she left the dense island for New Jersey across the Hudson.

Yet she couldn’t think of New York without thinking of Vincent. Of their first meeting.  Of her previous trips with him. Everything she thought of in regards to her old life brought him to the forefront of her mind.  She reminded herself that not only was he unreachable, he also might not hold the same regard for her.

Months later, it still stung when she let it.  But for now, she was busy enough that the pain was more nagging than agony.

Paris was still pretty but it didn’t provide the comfort she longed for. And neither did the man she had on the phone.

“No, I’m afraid I need the money in the account _today,_ and I don’t care how you get it done,” she said, her tone heavy with finality.

He was frustrating her to no end.  Whether he was doing it on purpose, she couldn’t tell.  Not every one of Vincent’s contacts took her seriously and it would take several more months, even years, for this one to trust her. If at all.

Eugene helped, of course, but some things needed her attention and only hers.  It was difficult to trust a woman who came out of thin air to uphold an invisible empire; even more so when she was American and known to have been more than a mere art advisor.

“ _Cette pute_ ,” he muttered. She could hear the background sounds of buttons being pressed, the beeps deafening in the silence that followed the insult.

That was nothing new. She’d been called far worse than a whore or a bitch and to her face, at that.

She stopped walking and stood out of the way on the sidewalk to let others pass her by.  She was on her way home, resolved to spending the rest of her day sorting through email and then taking Theodora and Esteban out for a walk later.  Things in the press were finally quiet, relatively, and she didn’t have to worry too much about journalists or paparazzi dogging her. A ride from Eugene would have been easier but she needed the fresh air and the clicks of her heels. It made her feel powerful when dealing with difficult calls.

Even if it did result in pain.  Her ankle could protest later.

Sophia rolled her eyes as the man babbled on in accented English, almost patronizing.  The street was quiet for an afternoon, students in classes and people in stores and offices.  

That was one thing she didn’t miss since she left downtown Manhattan. Being chained to an office except for trips with her boss. Vincent sent her out into Paris to do what she needed to.  Analyse paintings, go gallery hunting.

She missed that, too. Her gut pulling her towards a piece, wondering whether it was worth offering to Vincent for approval. If he would covet it or let it sit in his freeport, out of taxable territory, to be seen by no one until he had need of the extra cash. It was simpler then. No emotions except those tied to whatever the painting or sculpture pulled out of her.

Her eyes fell on the empty store she paused in front of, large windows offering a view of beautiful hardwood floors and white walls. There were sheets spread out to protect the flooring, a ladder opened and forgotten, tools laid out. She could see office furniture peeking out of a back room and a staircase on the other side, what was probably office space, or perhaps a kitchenette, in the center of the two short corridors.  She glanced up and wondered how much of the building comprised of the rental space.

There was so much potential with this space.  It wasn’t too touristy. There were a few cafes nearby. It had a local charm that made it blend in just so without getting lost.

She eyed the sign in the window.  It bore a real estate office and a phone number.

Sophia interrupted the man on the phone and said, “I want the money in the account in an hour, or else other measures will be taken.”  She ended the call and slid the phone back into her jacket pocket.

She loved this jacket. Grey with black and gold embroidery, it fell to her ankles and had thin gold clasps down the center.  Along with heels, it gave her a strange sense of power when she walked.

She missed gallery life, she realized, and leaned back against a street lamp.  As restricting as it was at times, she loved seeing a client’s face register an artist’s meaning in the work, watching someone fall irrevocably in love with whatever it was they felt and saw within a piece.  The possible money wasn’t what drew her to the field; rather she was attracted to the balance of human behavior, of a captured moment in time, a visual language lost to time.

Well, almost lost, she conceded, as her mind wandered to the Knights of Lutetia.  Alexandre gave her a break in recent weeks and removed her from the late-night patrols as soon as she began appearing in newspapers.  She couldn’t be seen with him traipsing around Paris at odd hours and he didn’t need the scrutiny. Leo, too, was no longer needed for forgeries, but he would remain in the fold for now.  Liabilities that made the older Frenchman curse and once again remind her of the man she first met, of the one willing to do what it took to ensure secrecy.

“I’m good at keeping secrets and better at poetry anyway,” was all the blonde artist said, hardly bothered by the change in situation.  “No gig lasts forever.”

Neither would her visa if she didn’t come up with new employment.

Sophia dug her phone back out and dialed the number in front of her, staring at the property all the while.  She needed something new. A purpose of her own. Maybe this was the place to start.

* * *

_November_

La Santé Prison was an imposing structure of ancient walls.  It looked more like an old fortress than a prison, although Sophia supposed there wasn’t much of a difference except that it functioned to keep people in rather than out.  The prison was one of the few buildings that showed the city’s true age, far older than the Haussmann and other more modern designs made it seem.

“I wonder if it’s changed much since that doctor wrote about it,” Eugene commented on the ride over.  “The renovation looks promising but that doesn’t mean it will be maintained.”

She’d given him a strange look and searched for the prison as they drove into the 14th Arrondissement.  The conditions were deplorable, the cells and corridors dark and old.  Rats. Disease. Lice. Now the cells were twice the size, with showers, small fridges, and a desk.  They resembled very cramped dorm rooms, especially given that the law of “one prisoner to one cell” would likely not be followed.  French prisons were too overpopulated.

Sophia wasn’t entirely sure why, exactly, she’d given in to Eugene’s nudging to go visit Vincent.  But it would be wrong for her not to see him before the trial, to ignore what needed to be discussed, to not see how he was doing.  Despite their sharp departure, she missed him. And a visitation wouldn’t hurt either of them. The worst that could happen was that Vincent declined her visit.

She had things she needed to say.  She knew her feelings and it was best to get it all out in the open before the trial.  

Before she let the rest of her plans get ahead of themselves.  Within two weeks of calling the agent, she’d taken care of the red tape, signed a lease, and handed over a chunk of her own savings for the rental space.  In another, she’d gotten security systems installed and purchased office furniture. Now, she just needed artists. Paris was full of them. If they would consider her.

After entering and dealing with security, the guard staring at her longer than necessary as if assessing whether she truly looked anything like her passport photo, the pair were taken to a visitation room and left to wait.  The room was larger and brighter than she expected it to be. There was still a guard posted inside, which meant there was to be no expectation of privacy. Their entire conversation would be overheard.

Another guard brought Vincent in and she saw the toll prison was taking on him.  His suit was rumpled in places it normally wouldn’t be, a few stray threads at the seams.  His hair lacked its usual luster and she could see faint rings under his eyes. He was slim as it was but she was sure that, if she hugged him (not that they could), he would feel thinner in her arms.  The guard removed his handcuffs but threatened that he would put them back on if Vincent didn’t follow protocol.

The razor-sharp glare he gave the guard told her he was already known for flouncing authority where he could.

He sat down in front of her and it still felt as if there was an ocean between them.

“I didn’t think you would come,” Vincent said, putting his clasped hands on the table and offering the guard a pointed look before returning his attention to her.  “I thought perhaps you’d leave Paris, especially given the press attention.”

“I didn’t stay for you, business aside,” Sophia replied coolly, meeting his eyes.

He looked affronted but hardly surprised at her initial greeting.  How else was she supposed to begin? Ask him about the weather? Part of her was feeling vindictive for what he’d said to her, wanting to hurt him in return.  It was childish and impulsive but she was tired of constantly pretending as though she felt nothing, like his words, only heard by her, had no effect on her.

“You didn’t have to come across the city to pick an argument, a phone call would have sufficed,” he snapped, eyebrows knitting in annoyance.

But he didn’t move from his seat.  Which meant he was at least willing to hear her out.

“I wasn’t finished.  I’m not staying for you,” she began again, her voice calmer, more resolved.  “I’m staying because I owe it to Catherine. I owe it to everyone else in this damn city to finish the job you gave to me.  And I owe it to myself to find out the truth. I didn’t come this far, end up in the snake’s nest, only to fail.”

Sophia spat the last word as if it was poison on her tongue.  Although she’d made more than a few mistakes over the past few years, she’d only failed once when it truly counted at the auction for the letter.

“I’m done running and _that’s_ the only reason I didn’t take the first plane out of Paris.  I might love you but you’re not my sole reason for staying.”

The only sounds that broke the silence after her declaration were the radiator kicking on and the shuffling of the guard’s feet as he shifted stance.  If she had her phone, she would have taken a picture of how utterly shocked Vincent was. His brow relaxed and he sat back in his chair, wide green eyes staring at her as if she’d physically hit him.

“I did that once and I’ll never make that mistake again,” she murmured, never once breaking eye contact despite the burning sensation behind them.

For a moment, Sophia let herself retreat to their night together, passing through the empty corridors of the Louvre.  Her first mention of her previous relationship, one recently brought back into the light, how she gave up everything for someone else.  How she lost herself in the process and found herself over all over again.

She was brought back to the present by the guard’s dry cough, the man clearly irritated by this point at having to watch two people simply stare at each other.  Vincent’s shock gave way to an expression she knew far better, his assessing gaze heavy in the silence. It was almost as if he couldn’t decide whether to return some or all of her affections or if he found her control of the direction of the conversation incredibly annoying.

He remained silent and she was almost ready to simply stand up and leave.  She couldn’t put it more simply than that. She loved him. He didn’t come without his flaws, without his problems, but she loved him all the same.  She wished she’d admitted it far earlier, not that it would have prevented his current situation. She should have said it for herself, just to let the truth out of her chest so she could breathe properly.

She didn’t have to hide with him, he’d once told her.  It felt _good_ to say it, to lay everything bare for once.

“Vincent?” Sophia ventured, the lack of response beginning to unnerve her.  When he didn’t respond, she rose from the table, a fist tight around her heart again.

Of course.  Of course he didn’t feel…how could she have been so foolish?  Thinking his last words to her were a mistake? Whatever space in her lungs she gained at her admission was engulfed by his lack of a response, the pain she finally managed to push away renewed and very fresh.

The guard casually remarked that their time was almost up.  He wasn’t allowed to see visitors for very long outside of his legal team, she was told, but somehow the half-hour managed to feel like an eternity and a blink of an eye all at once.

She was halfway to the door when he asked, “Do all Americans declare their love so…nonchalant, _ma chérie_ _?”_

Sophia bit her lip and shook her head before pulling her shoulders back.  She turned to him, mouth tight.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“I have a great deal more to say but we don’t have the luxury of better circumstances,” he let his eyes drift over to the guard for a moment before meeting hers again, “for me to say them.  I love you, and I should have said it before now. I should have said it instead of what I did say, instead of letting my pride take over.”

That was the closest she would get to an apology.  He didn’t do them and he wasn’t about to start now.  She knew better than to ask for one.

“That’s a mistake I should have learned from the first time.  But alas. Here we are,” Vincent held his hands open, gesturing to the room.  “You’re the furthest thing from nothing, Sophia. I only ask that you don’t forget that.”

She felt the burning behind her eyes start again and she told herself she wasn’t allowed to cry.  Too many people entered prisons to see loved ones and ended up with puffy eyes and runny noses. She refused to be one of them.  She was sick of crying.

“I won’t,” she said.  

“Then sit down, please, and give me the pleasure of conversation for the first time in three months.”

She hesitated before walking back over and sitting down in the metal chair.  Sophia told him about the gallery, about her plans, and she found herself desperately wishing she was allowed to bring in her phone.  His input would have been valuable; she only knew how New York galleries functioned, never having been behind the scenes of the French ones.  He listened all the same and she watched as some of the earlier tension ease out of his shoulders and, just for moment, it felt like they weren’t in a windowless room with an audience.

It was gone as soon as it came when they were told their time was up and the other guard entered.  She watched as Vincent was handcuffed again and taken away. Before he was through the doorway, he looked over his shoulder at her, a trace of the man she knew so well finally showing through his weary visage.  

* * *

 

The empty space was musty, as Sophia expected it to be, but the drywall was new and the floors were in perfect condition for their age.  The oak planks were arranged into a herringbone pattern and stained a honey color that contrasted with the white walls. Not a single step resulted in a squeak.  A quick tour showed the main commercial area, long and narrow, with high ceilings and two corridors flanking a center room that turned out to be office space. One hallway lead to the back storage room, which then led into the back alley.  The other held the staircase to an upstairs office space broken up into three offices and a kitchenette.

It was smaller than she thought it was in some ways.  But it was otherwise perfect.

She didn’t know what she was doing, not entirely, but it felt right.

 _Gallerie Dépaysement._  The word didn’t have an English equivalent, translating as a feeling of disorientation or bewilderment at being in a foreign place or a change in mental state or emotion from a major life change.  If that didn’t perfectly describe the state the past few months left her in, she didn’t know what did. The only option left was to embrace the change thrust upon her and she thought perhaps the name would help.  

All of the planning kept her occupied when she wasn’t in meetings or managing assets.  Most of the business, at least anything unrelated to Karm International, ran itself as long as all of the wheels were greased.  She was so busy that she didn’t have time to think much about anything except what she needed to do the next day.

It felt like it used to.  Before emotions got in the way, before she stumbled onto a bloody body, back when there was balance to her world.

Late one night, Sophia adjusted the wires behind a painting, one shown publicly for a week at most.  She never got around to hanging it in her bedroom and all things considered, she longer cared who saw it.  

The scene showed a forest at sunset, the leaves alight with oranges, reds, and ochres, almost fantastical in its presentation.  At first glance, all it appeared to be was a landscape in autumn, colors swirling. Beauty in decadence. But hidden behind one of the tree trunks was a mottled figure with sores, its expression joyful despite the pain of plague.  

The colors reminded her of Catherine teaching her the nuances in color choices, which materials she needed to mix paint, which oils an artists likely used to mix with pigments.

“Even lead white today does not appear like lead white did centuries ago,” Catherine told her as she stood next to Sophia, the table littered with packages of pigments and various bottles and palette knives.  “Under an electron microscope, the physical appearance of the lead is very, very different.”

“Because of the Dutch stack process, right?”  Sophia asked, picking up a plastic bag and looking closer at the powder.

“ _Na’am_ ,” Catherine said and nodded once.  She didn’t speak her native tongue much anymore but occasionally she sang softly.  It filled the empty space and Sophia enjoyed hearing the different language. “Lead was corroded slowly with acetic acid using horse manure or used tanning bark.  The particles look different and it’s crucial that not only should it be lead white, but that it be historically accurate lead white.”

Sophia had nodded and listened, taking in every ounce of information she could.   _That_ was something not discussed in her circles, not amongst dealers.  It only mattered when provenance was questioned. A museum conservationist or an artist would know much more about the nuances and subtleties.  

"Clear the surface and dump the ochre pigment into a small pile.  Keep the linseed oil and the muller.”

She watched as Catherine made a tiny hole in the pile and slowly added the oil using a syringe, mixing the paint with a palette knife.  She added a drop or two of oil, mixed, and kept going until she had the consistency she wanted. The older woman took the glass muller, which looked like a giant chess pawn to Sophia, and further ground the paste until it was silky smooth.

“No air pockets.  If the paint is going to crack, it’s going to crack because of the baking, not because of poor paint mixing.”

Catherine took pride in her work, even if the work was never truly her own.

“I need the Prussian blue and that purple that’s there.  Can you manage to do that or are you all thumbs when it comes to manual work?”  Catherine was already scraping the newly mixed paint into a pile and putting it onto a palette.  

“I’ll take care of it,” Sophia had said as she cleared more space and followed the example shown to her.

It was the only time she’d mixed paint from scratch before.  Despite growing up with an artist, she was never allowed to handle her mother’s paints.  That evening had a peaceful silence to it Sophia remembered well.

Sirens broke her out of her reverie and her phone buzzed in her back pocket several times.  Social media notifications, texts from Eugene about whether she was home. This wasn’t exactly new; something similar happened back in January but there were _a lot_ of sirens.  

The door opened and Eugene entered and quickly shut it behind him, pressing his back against the glass.  He looked over his shoulder for a moment but no one was attempting to get in. The few people on the street were walking faster but nothing seemed out of place.  Sirens were nothing new in a city.

“Gather your things, please.  I’m taking you home,” was all the valet said, his tone sharp.

Sophia narrowed her eyes at him and checked the trending news on her accounts.  A bombing? Here? She scrolled and scrolled, looking for more information. She felt like, for a moment, she was back in high school fourteen years ago when her teachers turned on the news to watch planes crash and plumes of smoke engulf the streets of Manhattan, a constantly updating news cycle.  Except the news cycle was quicker and everything was first-hand footage.

“Eugene, is this-”

“If it wasn’t, would I be here earlier than necessary?”

Sirens grew in the distance, a never-ending song of trouble.  A faint smell of something burning wafted through the air.

She did as asked and went upstairs, quickly grabbing her laptop and other belongings of value.  Eugene took care of the doors and security and she was ushered into the 5-series without much preamble.  Esteban barked from the front passenger seat, his carrier bucked in, while Theodora laid across the rest of the backseat, ears flat and her body tense.  She tentatively stroked the large dog’s head as Eugene started the car.

Sophia couldn’t recall ever seeing the valet this nervous and uncertain. There was something harder about his face and she didn’t ask anything else as he worked his way through the Third. It wasn’t until they passed through the Sixth and reached the Seventh, across the river, that she asked him where they were going.

“There’s a house in the Seventh.  The Third is too close to whatever is happening,” was his terse reply.

She let out a breath through her nose, not satisfied with the answer nor the action.  She wasn’t going to argue with him, there was no point in it. Part of her wished he would take her to the penthouse instead, where Esteban was more comfortable and everything was on one floor.  Even the secrets she was in charge of held secrets of their own, it seemed.

“I was told to keep you safe. I’m using my best judgment.  The attacks keep inching south and no one knows what’s going on.”

The building they pulled up in front of was one of traditional Parisian appearance; limestone facade, iron railings, perhaps three or four stories tall.  Sophia got out and opened Theodora’s carrier when she was out on the sidewalk while Eugene carried Esteban, the pug resting his head on the servant’s shoulder.

She followed Eugene inside after he opened the first door with a passcode and the second with a regular key, turning it twice before the audible click resounded in the entryway.  

Sophia let go of Theodora’s collar as Eugene flicked on the lights in the foyer.  The floor was made of black and white marble, laid out in a geometric pattern, a black bench near the door to the left.  The right wall was made up of cream panels lined in black, arranged to let light in while also providing some privacy from the window behind it.  Straight ahead of her was what appeared to be a kitchen, light blue cabinets peeking out from where she stood. She caught a glimpse of a stainless steel island and light fixture, both curved in the same undulating pattern.

She saw a sitting room to the left across the corridor, full furnished, with tall glass doors showing a small yard.  

“I don’t think there’s anything in the house at the moment but there should be a few sets of clothes in one of the bedrooms, I believe,” Eugene said as he walked away.  “Also be careful with Theodora on the second floor.”

“Why?”  Sophia asked, still awestruck at the fact the property had a small yard, a luxury in itself in a large city.

“You’ll see.”

Sophia looked down the corridor, the entire space white and open, city lights streaming down from the skylights far above, every floor having a central walkway.  She leaned over and counted three floors, maybe a basement, if the spiral staircase was any indication. An elevator sat to the right, only just out of view.

She crossed into the sitting room, complete with two sofas and a pair of chairs and a fireplace.  Through there, to the right, was a dining room. The furniture in here wasn’t her style, between the sleek white cabinets and the medium-brown wooden dining table.  The chairs reminded her of fence posts. The kitchen was airy, the only color in the room from the bar stools at the island and the light blue cabinets. Despite the colder color palette, the curves kept the room from being too unwelcoming.  A half-bathroom sat between the kitchen and the elevator.

Theodora took it upon herself to lead her master to the second floor, where Sophia found a larger sitting room on her right.  The space was separated into two sitting areas, one with a fireplace and a television and the other flanked by bookshelves and a painting hanging between them.  Underneath the painting was a set of furry white chairs, the only textured pieces of furniture in the room. Across the way was a piano, set into a corner of the room, along with a desk and another couch.  Both sides of the room were covered in more shelves, empty, waist-high cabinets sitting beneath them.

As she was about to head to the next floor, Sophia realized she was alone, no longer hearing Theo’s claws on the wood.

“Theo?” She called, surveying the space.

She saw movement to her far right, among the white chairs, a set of ears perking up and a tail swishing at the sound of a name.  The dog climbed down from one of the chairs and came to Sophia, black eyes glittering as the two stared at each other.

“You can sleep in a little while, preferably where you’re visible,” Sophia knelt down and ran her hands through the thick fur, kissing the dog on the head.

The final floor contained three bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a secluded office space.  One bedroom had an adjustable divider, secluding half of the space from the other, sectioning off the sleeping space.  The other was more open, with a desk and a small sitting area. Both had attached full bathrooms with tubs and separate showers, giving the resident full privacy.

A small office space, with dark shelves and deep maroon walls gave way to the largest bedroom.  The master bedroom held an imposing king bed, the headboard a honey colored wood that gave way to a fabric headboard, reading lights attached on either side of the bed.  More floor to ceiling glass doors, along with a chaise lounge, a few low tables. A television was mounted across from the bed, above a small electric fireplace.

She continued down the private corridor near the large balcony doors to the bathroom, which, like the other two, contained a tub and a separate shower.  It was white but the travertine floors were creamy and, like the kitchen, kept the room from feeling too sharp and clinical. Sophia found a few articles of clothing in the master closet, all new, only bearing the designer’s tag sewn into them.  Beautiful pieces she might not have picked out, ones that were, she thought, made to fit her and her alone. She had enough to wear for a few days, at least until she was able to return to her apartment.

This was...excessive.  In every way. She counted three bedrooms so far and she hadn’t even seen the rest of the property yet.

Sophia returned to the kitchen to find Eugene making an extensive grocery list.

“There’s coffee over there,” he said, gesturing to the metal pot on the counter, along with a container of powdered creamer with his pen, not looking at her.  “That’s the only thing I came prepared for. That, and food for the dogs.”

She helped herself to a cup before taking a seat across from him at the island.  “How _big_ is this place, Eugene?”

“Three and a half stories.  Four bedrooms, five bathrooms, over ten-thousand square feet.  The basement contains a gym, pool, and a steam room and accesses the gardens in the back.  There’s staff accommodations as well.”

He rattled off facts like they were directions and Sophia stared at him, her coffee cup touching her lips.  She waited until he finished so she could take a sip without spitting it back at him in shock. _Five_ bathrooms?  The staff apartment surely had one, which meant there was another lurking near the bedrooms she’d missed entirely.

“How did I never know about this place?” She asked, waiting for him to finish part of the list.

“It’s a...recent acquisition.  I only made the arrangements for the showing and the sale, I’m afraid.  I wasn’t sworn to secrecy and it’s been on your list of assets to oversee.”

She must have overlooked it, then, she mused.  Or perhaps still, figured it was an income property rather than a vacant home.  Something about the entire thing sat strangely with her. It wasn’t like the estate out in the country, older, with renovations done to bring it into the twenty-first century while maintaining the historical designs.  It wasn’t entirely like the penthouse she grew to know, either, most of the colors throughout light and airy, soft. Grounded rather than removed from the city; the Eiffel Tower was practically _in_ the garden.

Sophia took the coffee and left the kitchen, Theodora content to sit with Esteban near Eugene, as if waiting for a midnight treat.

The sirens were quieter than they were at the gallery but they were ever-present still.

She took the stairs to the third floor and stopped in the master bedroom’s study to eye the space.  It was the only space that resembled something Vincent would work in, the overhead lighting sharpening the slight contrast between the colored walls and the dark shelves.

In her front pocket, her phone vibrated as her ringtone went off unexpectedly.  Who would call her at this hour? Her family, perhaps, given that the world probably already knew about the attacks.  She should put statuses up later, she noted as she fished the phone out and stared at the unfamiliar number.

Well, it was a French number, which narrowed it down significantly.

She swiped to answer and was greeted by an automated voice asking if she would accept the charges associated with a call from La Sante.

Vincent?  Was he even _allowed_ phone privileges?  Tonight kept getting stranger.

Sophia said yes and waited for the call to connect.  

“Sophia?”  It had only been a week and a half and already it felt like she was forgetting what his voice sounded like.  He sounded almost panicked.

 _Of course he would be,_ she realized, remembering everything he told her about the night of the accident.  She’d watched him flinch occasionally when police cars flew by with their sirens screaming or play with his signet ring when he wasn’t able to control a situation he didn’t like.  The control wasn’t always about power but comfort.

“I’m alright.  We left that side of the city after the third attack,” she said, tapping her free hand against the plain mug.  “I haven’t had a chance to turn on the television yet.”

“There’s supposedly been a shooting, too, they’re not telling us much,” Vincent replied.  “Forced us back to our cells without television or radio access until morning.”

Silence hung between them, heavy with the knowledge of death, that the city would be mourning.  

“I needed to know Eugene did his job,” Vincent’s voice broke for a moment, a fracture in the cool surety he always wore.  “If…”

“Vincent, anything can happen.  A very talent duck could take me out if circumstances permitted.  Terrorists are nothing special.”

“Only you would say such a strange thing.”

“I’m American.  I refuse to let strangers with hate in their hearts have the satisfaction of scaring me.”

If he was here, with her, she had a feeling he would cradle her face in his hands and kiss her forehead.  Instead, she had to make do with the wry chuckle over the phone.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the house?” She asked, resting her hip against the desk.

“So that’s where Eugene took you.”  He didn’t sound surprised. If anything, he almost sounded as if he was in pain.  “I only closed on it the Friday before the press release. While Marion kept you busy shopping, I met with a bank and the realtor.  I...was going to save it until after everything died down.”

He paused before continuing unprompted.  “The staircase reminded me of the Guggenheim a little.  And you so adored the staircase at Moreau’s home.”

Her breath caught in her chest and she sniffed, her eyes burning at the memory.  They’d visited the home of the artist that brought them together in the first place, Gustave Moreau’s seventeenth century quarters turned into a museum that housed his sketches and paintings.  The museum had a grand spiral staircase, cherry wood and wrought iron, a piece of architectural wonder in its own right. She’d run her hands over the railing, marveled at the presence it had in the gallery.

They’d never visited the Guggenheim together but it was a reference to the home she missed and it made her heart ache all the more.  

“Elevators are practical, of course, but I thought of you nonetheless.  I wanted to...ask you to live with me and I thought a place new to both of us would be far more fitting.”

This wasn’t a fancy apartment to live in, to try out to see whether they would do well together in a single space.  It was a house, a home. It had everything and then some, room to grow. He made the commitment to the property with intention of making a stronger commitment to her.  He wanted a life with her, she realized.

“I know nothing went how it was supposed to,” he said.  “But I told Eugene that if things got out of hand for you, to take you there.  No one knew about it and I made sure to include it in the trust, so you would have control over it.”

Sophia hastily wiped an eye with the heel of her palm and then walked to the small corridor overlooking the other floors.  

“It’s really, really big,” She replied and then teased, “You never do small gestures, do you?”

“I don’t know how, I’m afraid.”

It hung in the air, his inability to gauge how relationships worked, how normal people went about such things.  She didn’t need grand gestures but she’d learned that was how he appreciated the people in his life.

“What’s with the….fur chairs?” Sophia asked, hesitating.  Perhaps now was not a good thing to discuss furniture choices.

“Ah, it came with the place. I thought we could shove them in a corner, they’re quite…”

“Kitschy.  They have you written all over them.  But I confused Theodora with one of them, god help me if she sleeps in it.”

He laughed this time and she felt her lips curve into a smile, her first all night.

“You can redesign it however you want, _ma chérie_ ,” he said, before adding, sorrow in his voice, “Or you can sell it, if you’d prefer.”

He was looking at a life sentence.  They both knew it. Whatever dream he had when he bought the house wasn’t going to be realized.  Not even if there was a French version of parole with good behavior.

“We’ll see what happens at the trial,” she said softly.  “You chose well, it’s a beautiful home, Vincent.”

_I only wish you were with me to share it._

“I’m glad you’re safe,” Vincent said, changing the subject.

“Be sure to thank Eugene.”

“I plan to.  Tell Esteban I love him?”

“Of course,” she smiled, her hand returning to the warm mug.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

For once, he didn’t get the final word as they said goodnight.  

Sophia returned to the kitchen to find a small toiletry bag on the counter, along with an extra phone charger, things she kept in the car for such emergencies.  Eugene was nowhere to be found. She called the dogs and they followed her into the elevator, the machine silent as it brought them to the third floor. She got ready for bed and found the pug and eskimo dog snuggled together on one side of the bed, already drifting off to sleep.  Sophia curled up on the other half of the bed, this section of Paris quieter than she was used to.

As she fell asleep, her mind drifted and her heart ached again.  She wasn’t sure what hurt more, the fact that he waited to tell her he wanted to share a life with her or the fact that it would now, more than ever, never come to be.


	23. Chapter 23

_December_

Sophia let out a deep breath as she looked out at the crowd of reporters and police near the building’s doors.  She expected something like the courthouse in New York, old and refined, with flights of stairs, but to her surprise, the building was a glass skyscraper with three different tiers.  All glass and white-colored steel. Cold and modern.

She was thankful for the tinted windows.  She half-wondered if it was possible to enter _any_ other way but the front door.  All of this was why she fled so long ago.  Press, especially when it involved any kind of scandal, was brutal when it wanted to be.

She survived once, she reminded herself.  She could do it again.

Her phone buzzed in her hand and she swiped away a text from her mother.  Her parents knew, of course, she kept them up to date on her life, but this was a repeat for them.  They’d offered her a plane ticket, her old room, an option to shelter herself. She was resolute in her decision, just as she had been then.  

It didn’t keep them from worrying.  She promised herself to call later.

“The longer you wait, the more vicious they get,” Eugene quipped with a long glance into the rear-view mirror.  “And I can’t stay parked here forever.”

Vincent’s lawyer insisted she at least show her face. Her hair was tied back halfway, a compromise to show her face without losing the carefree appearance of her hair down.  Most of her morning went to curling it. Her ankle screamed despite the pain killers she took.

It wasn’t a good day.  She didn’t want to do this.

_Do it for yourself_ , she mentally retorted.   _Do it so that there’s one face in there that doesn’t hate him._

“I can’t meet you inside but I’ll be nearby,” Eugene consoled.  “Call me and we’ll leave.”

“He’d want you there too.”

Eugene turned around and gave her a gaze that revealed the agony he kept at bay.  That was a selfish blow, even for her. He didn’t deserve that.

She just didn’t want to face this alone.

The valet turned back around and brushed a stray piece of lint from the wooden dashboard.  “There’s business to do, your hands can’t be dirtied with it.”

_They’re already stained with blood and forgery._

Sophia opened the door and stepped out into the frozen December air, head high and gaze set on the doors.  

* * *

 Security was difficult, despite her three versions of identification (her passport, New York license, and her visa), and she was thankful when a gruff voice cut through the conflict with an order.  It wasn’t until she took her things off the conveyor belt and slid her shoes back on that she got a good look at the voice’s owner. Sophia couldn’t help but stare at him in the lobby, an impressive and airy space dashed through with staircases and long hanging lights.

That was Leo’s jawline and eyebrows but...was she hallucinating?

“ _Inspecteur_ Hugo Dubois, Criminal Investigation,” the man said, his badge hanging around him neck clearly marking him as a member of the police force.

“Dubois?”  She eyed him up and down once, looking for other signs of her artist companion in the man in front of her.

Their style wasn’t that different, even if colors were.  Hugo wore a blue jacket with black accenting, the collar askew.  His pants were darker than anything Leo would wear but his belt held a pair of cuffs and a holstered pistol that seemed to sit strangely on his slim hips.  She examined his face again and shook her head slightly. He, too, had the same habit of skipping shaving more often than he should. Leo carried it better though; it just made Hugo look tired.

“ _Oui_.  My brother Leo, deadbeat though he is, asked me to keep an eye on you during the trial.”

Hugo gestured to the escalator, which Sophia stepped onto without issue, despite her screaming ankle.  She was going to have to considering physical therapy more often, if she wasn’t going to compromise on the shoes.  

“You’re an inspector.  Surely this is something for people with more time on their hands,” she said as she stepped off and followed Hugo’s directions to the courtroom.

“He might not be productive but he _is_ my brother.  And I’m one of the few impartial parties regarding this case.”

She arrived just in time, it seemed, for the courtroom was open for seating.  It was a narrow space, windowless, with honey colored floors and sound-proof paneling.  White benches made up the seating space for the viewers. On the left and right sides, closer to the judicial benches, were glass-paneled enclosures for the jury, which in this case, was nonexistent.

Sophia only served jury duty once, while in college, but the room looked nothing like this.

In front of the jury boxes were long benches with microphones, for the defense and prosecution.  Most of the people near the prosecution bench were recognizable to her; Audrey Kinglsey, Raphael Laurent, TJ Carter off a little bit from the group.  They were all there the night Vincent was arrested and were the most credible to the immediate case. Others were familiar in face, not name, people she saw at Vincent’s parties or coming and going from his office.

They were going for everything they could with him.  She read the stories. Blackmail, coercion, entrapment, and probably tax fraud, somewhere in the long list of charges.  The headlines were terrible. _Karma for Karm International CEO_ , along with a lot of stupid puns turning Karm into karma.

A single lectern with a glass top stood in the center of them, for the witness being questioned.  At the far end of the room were seven chairs, all behind another long table. The actual bench, she assumed, where the judge or judges would sit.

“Are there normally that many chairs up at the bench?” she asked, slipping into a seat at the back of the room.

Hugo sat next to her, to act as a barrier.  “Special cases will have a panel of judges, three or seven depending on the severity.  They vote by majority.”

So much for a trial of his peers.  Things were the same here but yet so different in the details.

Other than answering her basic questions, Hugo didn’t talk much, for which she was thankful. She expected his presence to be intrusive and tense but in fact, he was strangely calming.

In that aspect, he and Leo were the same.

People trickled in, reporters obvious with their recorders, tablets, or notepads.  Interested members of the public made up the rest of the audience, the room packed to capacity.  More than once, she felt the hot glare of recognition from Laurent, although when he recalled her from, she wasn’t sure.  Their initial run-in when he was still engaged to Sarah? Had Sarah told him who she was, recently? Or did he remember her from the group in the catacombs who watched as Vincent ordered someone to nearly drown him in the Essence?

Sophia didn’t entirely care.  Maybe he just hated anyone who ever considered Vincent Karm human.

TJ never met her eyes.  He looked anywhere but her.  Audrey Kingsley openly watched her, as if trying to determine what her value was to this case.  The journalist no doubt already had a story in the works, one she couldn’t publish until after the trial, as many did.  The reporters glanced over, their expressions never quite sure if she was, in fact, the woman they wanted to see. Whether she would attend her lover’s trial.

She wanted to curl up into a ball and snuggle Theodora until she fell asleep.  Sheltered and safe. She hated feeling as if she was under a microscope. Sophia felt the crushing weight in her lungs, the desire to flee.  She kept looking through her purse every so often for something to do; her phone was off and she wasn’t allowed to use it.

“If it’s any consolation, they’re planning on making this a one-day trial,” Hugo dropped his voice, eyes never pausing as he slowly scanned the room.  “They don’t want to drag it out longer than necessary; the public is demanding a swift and harsh punishment. And the witnesses won’t be available forever, many of them want to leave France and return home.”

It was some comfort but it didn’t make today any less agonizing.  This made her settlement with Richard look and feel like a walk in the park.  Which it had been. Dividing assets and deciding who paid for the engagement ring was far easier than attending a criminal trial in a foreign country.

Vincent arrived before the judges, allowed to wear a suit rather than a prison jumpsuit.  If she got the chance, she wanted to ask how he was bending so many rules so early on. It would only make him a target once he was back in La Santé.

He looked like he did the last time she saw him, tired but refusing to let his posture waver.  His movement was fluid, confident, but she didn’t miss the pang of frustration when he looked at her as he walked by.  His single action was the confirmation the press needed on her identity and she looked straight ahead despite wanting to put up her hand and block her face.  There was no point in that.

It took her a second to recognize that the suit he wore wasn’t his usual black and green but black with a navy-blue tie she’d never seen before.  It matched the pocket square, folded elegantly and tucked into his breast pocket.

He only ever wore blue for her.

She, in turn, wore the Hermès scarf she loved so much.  

The tension in the room grew as the judges walked in, everyone standing before taking their seats again.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

 The pounding of the gavel matched the pounding in her head by the time afternoon rolled around.  Sophia wasn’t allowed to see Vincent at all and thus spent most of the day watching with growing anxiety.  She’d eaten on the first recess, barely, and she sipped from her water bottle every time her stomach threatened to growl.

Hearing everything spoken aloud didn’t make it any less painful.  Her name came up more than once, which Vincent’s lawyer promptly shut down with agreement from the judges.  It was clear that the prosecution would have loved for her to be up there, defending him ardently. The character witnesses were brutal and accurate, severe in how they painted him as a narcissistic opportunist with little to no self-control when it came to acquiring wealth or power.

Vincent Karm was no saint.  She knew that, saw that in the finances and the people she dealt with.  She knew that when she took his job offer, when he strong-armed her into a debt she’d never be able to pay back.  He was flawed, extremely so, and curated himself accordingly. So much so that he was a caricature of himself.

He wasn’t always that man.  But for her to speak for him was to make herself look like Carol Ann Boone or any one of the members of the Manson family.  Delusional, brain-washed, incapable of thinking for herself.

She would stand at his side but she would not speak.  It was the only way she would attend the trial. And Vincent refused to have her pulled in further.

The case wasn’t about her.  It was about Vincent facing the choices he’d made and dealing with the consequences, something he rarely did in his life.  He wasn’t exempt from the law, despite thinking otherwise.

Vincent was asked to give a closing statement before the judges decided whether or not he was guilty.  Her headache made it hard to follow his long-winded and unnecessarily dramatic speech. Sophia could barely focus on how he orated, the man from Versailles coming alive again.  He believed he was genuinely doing something beneficial—creating an experience of pure bliss and ecstasy where people felt no sorrow or pain—and that his greed drove him to take it further.  That he always thought he was helping people get a leg up in life, giving them a chance others didn’t. He went on to say that, without him, most of the programs on French television wouldn’t have happened, how he culturally impacted the country’s legacy as a global center for fine art and fashion.  That he understood what he lost through his actions, ashamed that he thought he alone could be responsible for a product that, in the end, would have harmed the very people he wanted to help.

It didn’t entirely make sense, truth be told.  He was dancing around words he didn’t want to say and hoped that they were implied.

Sophia watched Audrey Kinglsey mouth, “liar” when Vincent looked directly as the journalist.

“A passionate speech, yet it must be noted you did not openly express remorse or regret for your actions,” a female judge said once Vincent took his seat again.  “Not even the impact they had on the people in this room, let alone all of France.”

She felt a few eyes shift towards her and Sophia sat straighter.  She didn’t need an apology publicly. She already had one.

The judges voted shortly after the closing arguments, their decision unanimous.  The gravel was pounded again by the judge in the center to call order as Vincent’s sentence was given.  Life in prison with a chance of parole if social reformation efforts were made, with an order to comply to DNA samples for the national database.  His remaining assets would be transferred to the prison to handle in three accounts—something she remembered him mentioning a week ago—one of which would be used to distribute money among the civil parties to be compensated for their damages.

Another pounding of the gavel and Sophia openly winced at the sound as court adjourned.  She felt a firm grip on her arm and heard a gruff voice tell her to gather her things before she could be bombarded.  Sophia let Hugo lead her out of the courtroom and back down to the lobby and out a backdoor into a parking garage.

“Did you drive?” he asked, glancing around and finding a few stray reporters near their vans.

A few of them didn’t move initially until Hugo made the mistake of using her name to get her attention.

“I was driven,” Sophia rattled off the plate number and her eyes fell on the silver BMW, complete with a red-headed man at the wheel, reading a book.  The car went in and out of focus for a second but she knew once the man got out of the car that he was, in fact, Eugene.

Her vision blurred from the headache, her eyes unable to focus on anything for more than a few seconds.  Nausea seated itself in her throat and she fought to breathe, to look normal. It was stress, lack of food and water, more caffeine than she should have.  Eugene took over when Hugo let go of her and helped her into the backseat. She thanked Hugo and offered a weak smile when he said to thank Leo, not him, and to take care of herself.

Sophia swore Eugene snorted at that.

She was in the middle of kicking off her shoes when the other backdoor opened and a woman slipped inside.  Sophia blinked once, twice, but the woman was still there, urging Eugene to drive. He was furious, demanding she remove herself from the car before he had her removed.

The stranger wasn’t so much a stranger as the reason for everything turning to shit, Sophia realized.  Part of the fog of pain lifted enough for her to recognize the journalist.

Kingsley had shaken down her chignon, strawberry blonde hair falling around her face in a mess of wavy tangles.  Her grey eyes were softer than she last saw them during Vincent’s speech. She turned her attention back to Eugene.

“Drive, please.  I’m not here to harm anyone or obtain any statements.  I only wish to speak to Miss Cousland. American to American.”

“I want nothing to do with you,” Sophia hissed, turning her head towards the window.  Cold. She wanted her bed in the large mansion and the heat up only enough to keep the cold at bay.  A chill was good when she felt this way. “You’re a fool, Audrey Kingsley. I have nothing to say to you.”

“You were there that night.  I remember you. Pretty dress, ratty flats.  You knew the catacombs,” Audrey said, the car pulling out of the spot when Eugene realized there was no way to get rid of the stranger without causing a scene.

“I knew enough to get by.  That’s not why you’re in my car.”

“No wonder he likes you,” Audrey’s tone was full of admiration and realization.  “Or maybe it’s just an American thing. The French are always more abstract and roundabout in their communication.”

“I’m tired of bullshit.  Say what you have to and leave.”

“Answer me this first: why am I fool?  Aren’t you the one who fell in love with your employer who was planning to take over one of the world’s largest cities with a perfume made of ancient love water?”

She was genuinely curious despite her patronizing, Sophia could tell.  She turned her head marginally towards the other woman and saw she was waiting patiently, as any journalist would.

“I’m a fool for different reasons,” Sophia lamented.  “But you…you’ve managed to create a power vacuum.”

“Oh?”

“Vincent knows that.  He knows more than I’m at liberty to say.  So I suggest you listen to him if he ever brings up the subject.”

“Are you giving me a lead?”

Sophia pushed away from the window and turned herself towards the other woman, eyes narrowed so she could look at her properly without her vision swimming.  “I’m telling you to clean up the mess you made. You have _no_ idea what’s in store for Paris now.   _Centuries_ of strings being pulled, people put in place and taken out, machinations that put _mon coeur_ ’s manipulations to shame.”

She winced when the last words left her mouth, her breathing deep as she struggled to gain some control over her own body.  Vincent didn’t have a nickname with her but the words were appropriate, if only to get her loyalty across.

“Here,” a small hand held out a tiny bottle with a brand she recognized.  “The lights were driving me nuts earlier.”

Sophia openly glared at the woman but took the bottle, taking two pills out before giving it back.  She swigged them down and uttered her thanks.

“Even Vincent is not above the law.”

“You mistake me for a puppet,” Sophia snapped.  “I would rather see him live with the consequences of his actions than dodge them.  Just because I have remained silent does not mean I condone his choices.”

“But neither do you condemn them.  Silence might as well be agreement.”

“That’s my prerogative.  I have been robbed of everything, _again_ , and you’re here lecturing me?”

“You can be angry with me, you have a right to be.  Another person ripping away everything you know and care about,” Audrey said, unflappable as she tucked away the medication and looked out through the windshield for a moment.  “I get it. But I wanted to speak to you because I wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”

_It’s a little late for an apology, don’t you think?!  How dare she!_

Thoughts that plagued her since she first moved into the house in the Seventh Arrondissement returned and she felt ill all over again.  Vincent had _plans_ for them.  As far as she knew, the only time Vincent ever planned that much was when he was certain of everything else.  He was certain of her, her place in his life. A certainty he’d given her over and over ever since they realized their relationship was deeper than just work.  One she could trust in, surprisingly enough. It was something she craved for a long time, something she thought only she could give herself.

To trust again felt hard.  And yet so easy when it was him.  Not because he was charismatic but because she knew him through so many different facets.  Through how he worked, what art he liked, how he let her plan an art exhibition with him rather than for him.  How he helped her adjust said exhibition rather than bring in other people to do so.

He might be fickle in other parts of his life but he was steady when it came to his trust of her.  And it made her trust him in turn.

Sometimes she caught herself wondering what the empty house would be like with him next to her.  Friends and family coming and going, quiet evenings in the library as he worked out a new composition, redesigning the house for both of them, picking out tiny socks and shoes, small hands playing with Theodora’s fur and Esteban’s curled tail.

Domesticity was never something she thought about, she was often too busy for it in the past few years.  But now, with time to spare, she couldn’t help but wonder if things would be different if the Essence was never found.  If they’d been given time.

She never realized how much those possibilities meant to her until they were gone, possibly forever.  Or at least until it was far too late.

“Perhaps this is a good spot to let you out,” Eugene interjected coolly, pulling to a stop at a nondescript curb.

“You’re sorry,” Sophia shook her head and bit her bottom lip.  “I’m never going to have a life with him, share a home, start a family, and you’re _sorry_?”

She stared at the younger woman, her skin still sun-kissed despite the December grey skies.  It was no secret that the journalist seemed to be interested in her employer, Raphael Laurent, as well as a woman with black and pink hair, whose name was never revealed.  Audrey Kinglsey would get to keep lovers, her friends, and her career.

And despite her attempts, Sophia felt as if her purpose was being ripped away every time she tried to take it back.

“If I could take back Heloise’s letter even being found, I would,” Audrey clarified, her voice soft and warm for someone so impartial in her job.  “You mentioned machinations? By who?”

Now Sophia understood why her own coldness was so frustrating to others.  The journalist wasn’t even phased that her co-passenger was on the brink of losing her shit and just kept everything moving as if it didn’t matter.

_Because it doesn’t.  Not to her. Pull yourself together._

Sophia looked away and wiped at her eyes, pulling on the familiar mask of neutrality and professionalism she knew so well.  She could keep her cool for a little while longer. Kingsley was being kind to her, the least she could do was return it.

“I’m not free to discuss it.  Ask Vincent when or if you visit him.  He’ll do so because he knows I can’t.”

“But—”

“Paris isn’t safe just because Vincent is in jail.”  Sophia unbuckled her seatbelt and reached around Audrey to open the door.  She pushed it open as far as she could and stared at the other American. “Thank you for the medication, Miss Kingsley.”

Audrey pursed her lips for a moment before understanding the message loud and clear.  She stepped out of the car with ease and took one final glance at Sophia before closing the door.  Eugene watched as the woman walked back the way they came before pulling away again, headed towards home.

“May we never meet again,” Sophia muttered as she rested her head against the window and watched Paris pass her by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short update, I'm sorry there's little to no Vincent in this chapter. And for the upcoming filler moments, there's a few more things I need to establish before I can begin to bring in Season 2 stuff properly. As always, thank you all for coming this far, for being patient, and your kudos and kind words. <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Breathless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16289867) by [PinstripesAndConverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinstripesAndConverse/pseuds/PinstripesAndConverse)




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